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REPRINTED FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 



AN ESSAY ON HER GENIUS 

BY 

MRS. SIGOURNEY. 



COMPLETE IN THKEE VOLUMSS. 

VOL. I. 



NEW-YORK : 
C. S. FRANCIS & CO., U52 BROADWAY. 

boston: 

J. H. FRANCIS, 123 WASHINGTON-STREET. 

] 845. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 

LEA & BLANCHARD, 

In the clerk's office of the district court of the eastern district 
of Pennsylvania. 






CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 



PART I. 



Tales and Historic Scenes : — 
Tlie Al)ci)cerraije . , Page 11 

Notes to ilitto ... 62 

The Widow of Crescentius . 73 
Notes to ditto .... 93 

Tiie Last Banquet of Antony and 

Cleopatra . . . .101 
Notes to ditto .... 106 

Al uic in Itdly .... 107 
Notes to ditto . . . . 113 

T!ie Wife of Asdrubal . . 115 
HolioJoius in the Temple . 118 

Niirht-Scene in Genoa . . 122 

The Troubadour and Richard Coeur 

deLion .... 130 

Notes to ditto .... 135 
T le Daath of Conradin . . 137 

Notes to ditto . . . .144 

Thk Restokaticx of the Wokks 

OF Art to Italy . . 147 

Notes to ditto .... 166 



Modern' Greece 
Notes to ditto 



169 

211 



Translations from Camokns and 

OTHER Poets . . . 223 

Miscellaneous Poems : — 

Lines written in a Hermitage 259 
Dirge of a Child . . . .261 

Invocation .... 262 

To the Memory of Gen. Sir E. P. 264 

TotheMemoryofSirH. E— 11— s 265 

Guerilla Song .... 267 

The Aged Indian . . . 268 

Evening among the Alps . . 270 

Dirge of the Highland Chief 270 

The Crusaders' War-Song . . 272 

The Death of Clanronald . 273 

To the Eye 274 

The Hero's Death ... 276 

Death of the Princess Charlotte 277 

Italian Literature : — 

Tiie Basviifliana of Monti . . 2S9 

The AlcesUs of Alfieri . . 297 
li Coute diCarmaguc>l.a,byManzoni3lO 

Caius Gracchus, by Monti . . 339 

Patriotic Effusions of Italian Poets 351. 



PART II. 



The Sceptic . . . Page 7 
A tale of the Secret Tribunal 29 
Superstition and Revelation 84 
The Caravan in the Deserts 97 
Marius a:«ongst the ruins of 

Carthage . . . 103 

Song, founded on an Arabian 

anecdote .... 108 
Alp-Horn Song (from the Ger- 
man of Teck) ... 110 
Translations from Horace . Ill 
TuE Cross of the South . 115 
The Sleeper of Marathon 117 
To Miss F. A. L , on her Birth- 
day - . . . . 118 
VVritten in the first leaf of 

the albuxM of the same 119 
To the same, on the death of 

her mother . . .119 
From the Italian of Garci- 

LASSO DE LA VeGA . 122 

From the Italian of Sannazaro 122 
Appearance of the Spirit of 

THE Cape to Vasco de Gama 123 



A Dirge J27 

The Maremma . • . . 129 
Stanzas to the memory of 

George the third . 139 

A TALE of the fourteenth 

Century . . . .147 

Belshazzar's Feast . . 168 

The Last Constantine . 175 

Greek Songs .... 225 

Elysium 235 

The Funeral Genius, (an An- 
cient Statue) . . . 210 
The Tombs of Plat.^a . . 242 
The view from Castri . 244 
The Festal Hour . . 246 
Song of the Battle of Mor- 

garten .... 251 
Sebastian of Portugal, (a Dra- 
matic Fragment) . . • 257 
Ode on the Defeat of Se- 
bastian of Portugal . 279 
The Siege of Vale>-cia . . 2b5 



TALES 



AND 



HISTORIC SCENES. 



(9) 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, mais, pnrce 
que la vengeance seule peut ecarter de sa lete le poids d'infamie dont il 
est accable. — II se venge, parce qii'a ses yeiix il n'y a qu'une ame basso 
qui puisse pardonner les affVonis ; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s'll 

la sentoit s'eteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu. Sis- 

nioudi. 



The events with which the following tale is interwoven, are 
related in the " Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada." 
They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli or Abdali, the last 
Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Ret/ Chico. 
The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said, by 
some historians, to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencer- 
rages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries 
they had received from the king at the instigation of the Zegris. 
One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is still pointed 
out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe 
were massacred ; and it still retains their name, being called the 
" Sala de los Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old 
Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and roman- 
tic period. 



CANTO I. 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 

Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er ; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls 

Blend the wild notes of minstrelsy no more. 

00 



12 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Hush'd are the voices, that, in years gone by. 
Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers ; 

Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high. 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 
Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam 
smiles, 

And many a tint of soften'd brilliance throws. 
O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone. 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair. 

Some charm'd abode of beings all unknown. 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads the enchanted ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades. 

Save winds and founts diffusing freshness round. 
Through the light domes and graceful colonnades. 

Far other tones have swell'd those courts along. 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace ; 

The clash of arms, the voice of choral song. 
The revels, combats, of a vanished race. 

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call. 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold! 

Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall. 

With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. 



THE ABSNCERRAGE. 13 

— The sun declines — upon Nevada's height 
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow. 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour : 
Hush'd are the winds, and Nature seems to sleep, 
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with, tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright fLirewell is fraught. 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from the Alhambra's towers what stormy sound, 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng, 
Not the light zambra, (1) nor the choral song; 
The combat rages — 'tis the shout of war, 
'T is the loud clash of shield and scymetar. 
Within the Hall of Lions, (2) where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; 
There, gh t and guarded by his Zegri bands. 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands, 
There the strife centres — swords around him wave^ 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave, 
While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
'' lievenge and Freedom ! — let the tyrant die ! " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still. 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 

Vol. H. 2 



14 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain ; 
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light. 
Ardent, imtired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs (3) there young Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Revenge and freedom ! — let the tyrant die ! " 

Yes, trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath, 
By helm and corslet shatter'd in his path; 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain. 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain ; 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, 
And where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes, that young arm, amidst th(3 Zegri host, 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 
They perish'd — not as heroes should have died. 
On tlie red field in victory's hour of pride. 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame. 
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came ; 
Oh ! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flow'd almost in triumph o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate — a tyrant's stern command 
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand. 
As with the flower of all their high-born race, 
Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh. 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die, 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 15 

Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell — the fountain wave 
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rung from gate to gate, 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rushed to the scene where vengeance might be won. 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife. 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life, 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset. 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more. 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 
But lo ! descending o'er the darken'd hall. 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall. 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased — tho' scarce they know, 
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe. 
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray. 
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah ? — 'midst his yielding train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain : 
He lies not number'd with the valiant dead. 
His champions round him have not vainly bled; 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil. 
And his last warriors found each effort fail. 
In wild despair he fled — a trusted few. 
Kindred in time, are still in danger true ; 
And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, / 

The Vega's (4) green expanse, his flying footsteps lead, i 
He passed the Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers,! 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers 
In dew and starlight — there from grot and cave, 
Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 



16 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

There, on each breeze, the breath of fragrance rose, 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ! in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. 
Oh ! vainhr bright is nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb ; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair. 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not though the hght gale roves 
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves, 
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise. 
Wild notes of Nature's vesper melodies ; 
Marks not, how lovely, on the mountain's head. 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band, 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains, 
In stern, deep silence — o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow. 
But waft in fitful murmurs from afar, 
Sounds, indistinctly fearful — as of war. 
What meteor bursts, wdth sudden blaze, on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky? 
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, (5) 
Magnificentl}'' dread — above, below. 
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. 
Lo ! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ; 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 17 

Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy Hght. 

Oh Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it l)liss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last. 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past. 
And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile. 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Embower'd it stands, 'midst wood and cliff on high, 
Through the grey rocks a torrent sparkling nigh ; 
He hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except the heart he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state. 
Where the loud cries of conflict rung so late ! 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd. (6) 
Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor step, nor breath 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound. 
Save the wild gush of waters — murmuring round, 
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone. 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
2* 



18 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate and shield, and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed. 
And smile, in placid beauty, o'er the dead ; 
O'er features, where the tiery spirit's trace, 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface, 
O'er those who, flush'd with ardent youth, awoke, 
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke. 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep, 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep, 
In the low silent house, the narrow spot, 
Home of forgetfulness, and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more ; 
Slumberers, who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who call'd the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day — Oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career. 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies are cloudless o'er a world of woe. 
And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway bloom, 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light ; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gather'd to the brave of other years j 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 10 

And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade 
His martyr'd brother and his sire are laid. 
Feels every deep resolve, and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance, e'en to passion wrought; 
Yet is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hush'd — another day 
In still solemnity hath pass'd away. 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath ; 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along. 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng; 
No voice is heard — but in each alter'd eye, 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth, to slumber with the dead, 
Those, by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone. 
In youth's quick glance of scarce dissembled rage. 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age. 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thousfht that ill th' indigjnant heart can veil. 
And passion, like the hush'd volcano's power. 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion, from Granada's walls 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned oa high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly radiant eye; 



^0 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread. 
And song is hush'd, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep — 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep ; 
Furl'd are their banners in the lonely hall. 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall. 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er. 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more; 
And they, who still thy tyrant^s wrath survive. 
Whom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive. 
That race, of lineage high, of worth approved. 
The chivalrous, the princefy, the beloved; 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause, the conquering lance and shield ; 
Condemn'd to bid the cherish'd scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell. 
And far o'er foreign plains, as exiles, roam. 
Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart. 
In deep, though silent, agony of heart ; 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone. 
Unseen her sorrows, and their cause unknown. 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear 
That smile, in which the spirit hath no share ; 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. 

Soft, fresh, and silent, is the midnight hour. 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower ; 
That Zegri maid within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern reason would efface, 
Hamet 1 't is thine, thou foe to all her race 1 



THE ABENCEURAGE. 21 

And vet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love ; 
Panics, which the rose of wasted youth consume, 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle-flight, 
And the spring-morn of early genius blight ; 
Not such her grief — though now she wakes to weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. (7) 

A step treads lightly through the citron shade, 
Lightiv, but by the rustling leaves betray'd — 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot. 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot? 
'J' is he — but changed that eye, whose glance of fire 
Could, like a sunbeam, hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught. 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought ; 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled. 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern thoughts and herce resolves — now veil'd in 

shade, 
And now in characters of fire portray'd. 
Chansjed e'en his voice — as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

" Zayda, my doom is fix'd — another day. 
And the wrong'd exile shall be far away; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, 
His home of youth, and, more than all, from thee. 
Oh ! what a cloud hath gather'd o'er my lot. 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot I 
Lovely as then, the soft and silent hour. 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; 



22 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

But I — my hopes the tempest hath overthrown. 

And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 

Farewell, high thoughts ! nispiring hopes of praise. 

Heroic visions of my early days ! 

In me the glories of my race must end, 

The exile hath no country to defend ! 

E'en in life's morn, my dreams of pride are o'er, 

Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more. 

And one wild feeling in my alter 'd breast 

Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 

Yet fear not thou — to thee, in good or ill. 

The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still ! 

But when my steps are distant, and my name 

Thou hear'st no longer m the song of fame, 

When Time steals on, Ia silence to eiFace 

Of early love each pure and sacred trace. 

Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 

But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, 

Still shall thy soul be with me in the truth. 

And all the fervour of aiFection's youth ? 

— If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 

In lonely beauty, o'er thy wanderer's way." 

" Ask not, if such my love ! oh ! trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resif^n'd ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought. 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget, 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret ! 
Foster'd in tears, ou?^ young affection grew. 
And I have learn'd to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail ephemeral flower. 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; 



THE ABENCSRRAGE. 23 

No ! 't is the child of tempests, and defies, 

And nieets unchanged, the anger of the skies ! 

Too well 1 feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 

That, ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 

We part ! and e'en this agonizing hour. 

When Love first feels his own o'erwhelming power, 

Shall soon to Memory's fix'd and tearful eye 

Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh! 

Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed. 

As days to days all wearily succeed. 

When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 

Almost like rapture to have wept with thee. 

" But thou, my Hamet, thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know. 
Oh ! be thou still the high-soul'd and the brave. 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave. 
In thy proud fame's untarnish'd beauty, still 
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. 
So shall it soothe me 'midst my heart's despair, 
To hold undimm'd one glorious image there ! " 

" Zayda, my best-beloved ! m}^ words too well. 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveil'd be shown. 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shalt not be deceived — for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought. 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crush'd by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains 
And such that heart — where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand ! 



24 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCRNKS. 

But Vengeance, fix'd upon lier burning throi>e. 

Sits 'nnidst the wreck in silence and alone, 

And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, 

Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 

— Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control. 

Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul ; 

They, the betray'd, the sacrificed, the brave, 

Who hll a blood-stain'd and untimely grave, 

Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse. 

In that stern cause, are banisli'd from my course. 

Zayda, thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 

Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; 

Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, 

Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 

And, oft recall'd, thy voice beguile my lot. 

Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot. 

"But the night wanes — the hours too swiftly fly, 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh : 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain, 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again ! 
Y'^es, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!'* 

Is the voice huslvd, whose loved, expressive tone 
riiriird to her heart, and doth she weep alone? 
Alone she weeps — that hour of parting o'er — 
When sliall the pang it leaves be felt no more ? 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, 
Showerin^z: the dewv rose-leaves o'er her hair; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power, 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 25 

To wake once more, that calm, serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath could 

blight'; 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour. 
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile through groves of deep luxuriant shade, 
In the rich foliage of the south array'd, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day. 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave, 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 
Lonely and fair — its fresh and glittering leaves. 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, 
To canopy the dead — nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air. 
Nor wood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream. 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combats o'er. 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more ! 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs, 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 
'Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom, 
As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 

There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread, 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead, 
Where two fair pillars rose, embower'd and lone. 
Not yet with ivy clad, wdth moss o'ergrown. 
Young Hamet kneels, while thus his vows are pour'd, 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword. 
— " Spirit of him, who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enslirined, 

Vol. IL -3 



26 TALE3, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

And taught my steps the Une of hght to trace, 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice — for thine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
'Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, 
Still murmuring ^vengeance!' — nor in vain the call 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame. 
Within my heart there lives one only aim ; 
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone. 
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. 
I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be. 
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; 
But the dark hour of stern delight shall come. 
And thou shalt triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art pass'd away. 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day : 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line. 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after-days. 
Yet by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun, 
By glory lost, I swear, by hope betray 'd. 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid ; 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife. 
And to avenge thy death, devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, oh spirits of the slain ! 
Hear and be with me on the battle-plain ! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide. 
Rise on my dreams, and tell m^ hpw ye died!'* 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 27 



CANTO II. 



Oh! ben provvide il Cielo, 



Ch' uom per delitti mai lieto non sia. 

Aljieri. 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain, 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms that fix the enthusiast's pensive eye. 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore. 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there ; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays. 
The wild sweet chronicles of elder days, 
By goatherd lone, and rude serrana sung. 
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among. 
How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale ; 
Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore. 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; 



28 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Of those, the famed in sons:, who proudly died, 
When " Rio Verde" rolPd a crimson tide : 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might. 
On the green Vega won in single fight. (8) 

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced. 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above, 
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright 
With gold reflecting every tint of light. 
And many a floating plume, and blazon'd shield, 
Diffused romantic splendour o'er the field. 

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start 
Swift to the mantling cheek, and beating heart. 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh. 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And oh ! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death ; 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour. 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain. 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain. 
And, 'midst the deepening tumults of the strife. 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold. 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There imaged on the cross, his form appears. 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears. (9) 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 29 

His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled, 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardour, which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal. 
They come, the gallant children of Castile ; 
The proud, the calmly dignified: — and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star. (10) 

But thou, conspicuous 'midst the glittering scene, 
Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest. 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, (11) 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes. 
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train. 
Oh son of Afric, 'midst the sons of Spain? 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired. 
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? 
How art thou changed ! Still first in every fight, 
Hamet, the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight ! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye. 
But not the light that shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone. 
But not the soul's expression once thine own. 
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd breast, 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest. 
3* 



30 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain, 
And rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield, 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field ; 
But all is peaceful now — the west is bright 
With tlie rich splendour of departing light; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky. 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high. 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head, (12) 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away, 
In silent musings rapt : — the slaughter'd brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river-side. 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. (13) 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days. 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose, and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harass'd warrior, jdelding to the power, 
The mild, sweet influence of the tranquil hour. 
Feels, by degrees, a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot ; 
And Hope, scarce own'd, yet stealing o'er his breast. 
Half dares to whisper, " Thou shalt vet be blest I ** 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 31 

Such his vague musings — but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; 
A low half-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
lie turns : Who shares with him that lonely shade ? 
— A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. 
All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, 
The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast ! 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd. 
With life's last force convulsively retain'd ; 
His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed. 
And the red lance, in fragments, by his side ; 
He lies forsaken — pillow'd on his shield. 
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish'd now 
The light once throned on that commanding brow 
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast. 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace. 
Though changed thus fearfully that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh ! is it thus," he cries, " we meet at last ? 
Friend of my soul, in years for ever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle ere that heart is cold, 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath. 
And, with vain pity, soothe the pangs of death? 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins 



32 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Some healing balm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost, — and Osmyn yet may live! 
And blest were he, whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague, uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder'd strays; 
Till, by degrees, a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain ; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye. 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die ; 
And the mind's grandeur in its parting hour 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power. 

"Awayl" he cries, in accents of command. 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, 
"Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free. 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee : 
'T is not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er. 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar; 
Be thine existence with a blighted name. 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's fame ! " 

The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek — his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy ; 
Frozen and fix'd it seems — his brow is chill; 
One struggle more, — that noble heart is still. 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes. 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose. 



THE ABENCERRAX3E. 33 

More keen, more bitter, than the envenom'd dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart ! 
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more 
Till life's delirious dream itself is o'er; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride ; 
While his soul rises gathering all its fofce. 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene ; 
Zayda ! to thee his heart for refuge flies ; 
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties. 
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; 
And soon thy smile, a,nd soft consoling voice. 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands. 
Whose aid in secret Hamet vet commands; 
Nor hard the task at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower. 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world, 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl'd. 
That hour is come — and o'er the arms he bears 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears; 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure he pass'd. 
And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last; 



34 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove, 

The sparkHng fountain, and the ora nge -grove ; 

Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat. 

As form'd alone for happy hearts to meet. 

For happy hearts? — not such is hers, who there 

Bends o'er her lute, with dark, unbraided hair; 

That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, 

Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 

So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 

Unheard approach her solitary seat. 

Till his known accents every sense restore — 

" My own loved Zayda ! do we meet once more ? " 

She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes: 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow ; 
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe — 
"Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!" 

"Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own? 
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone ? 
I will not deem thee changed — but in thy face. 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace I 
It was not thus in other days we met: 
Hath time, hath absence taught thee to forget? 
Oh! speak once more — these rising doubts dispel, 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well ! " 

"Not thus we met in other days! — oh no! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe ! 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away ! away ! 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 35 

On in thy path of triumph and of power, 

Nor pause to raise from earth a bhghted flower." 

" And thou too changed ! thine early vow forgot ! 
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorn'd, of every tie bereft. 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left; 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou, the good angel of each brighter dream, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possessed. 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath naught in store, 
Of joy or sorrow, e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence adieu ! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true?" 

" Hamet ! oh wrong me not ! — I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form. 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm ! 
But words are idle — read my sufferings there. 
Where grief is stamp 'd on all that once was fair. 

" Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem'd. 
All that thy mien express'd, thy spirit seem'd. 
My love had been devotion — till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band, 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 
Th* apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stain'd the trophies of a glorious race ; 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 



36 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour's cloud 
O'er that young name had gather'd as a shroud, 
I then had mourn 'd thee proudly — and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief; 
A noble sorrow, eherish'd to the last. 
When every meaner woe had long been past. 
Yes! let Affection weep — no common tear 
She sheds, when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let Nature mourn the dead — a grief like this. 
To pangs that rend my bosom had been bliss!" 

" High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn to recall, 
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, no dream of poor ambition fires. 
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled. 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda, wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
Oh, hear me yet! — if Hamet e'er was dear. 
By our first vow^s, our young atfection, hear ! 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall, 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ! 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe 1 
Fly, fly wdth me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly! and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and past." 



THE ABENCERRAGE, 37 

** Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come, 
Hasten'd by thee, to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety? — Woman too can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine unmurmuring, undismay'd to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem not thou my feeble heart shall fail, 
When the clouds gather, and the blasts assail; 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Call'd into life my spirit's latent power; 
But I have energies that idly slept. 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept, 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled. 
My soul is firm — for what remains to dread? 
Who shall have power to sufler and to bear. 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair? 

" Hamet, farewell ! retrace thy path again. 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in mingled murmurs, tell, 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Yes ! on that soil hath glory's footstep been. 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene. 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air ? 
Unheard, in vain, they call — their fallen son 
Hath stain'd the name those mighty spirits won. 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeath'd his own, through ages yet to be!" 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty, 
Vol. II. 4 



38 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

While her fair form and youthful features caught 

All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 

Severely beauteous! (14) awe-struck and amazed. 

In silent trance awhile the warrior gazed 

As on some lofty vision — for she seem'd 

One all inspired — each look with glory beam'd, 

While brightly bursting through its cloud of woes. 

Her soul at once in all its light arose. 

Oh ! ne'er had Hamet deem'd there dwelt enshrined. 

In form so fragile, that unconquer'd mind. 

And fix'd, as by some high enchantment, there 

He stood — till wonder yielded to despair. 

"The dream is vanish'd — daughter of my foes! 
Reft of each hope, the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul — yet deem thou not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
O form'd for happier love ! heroic maid ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismay'd. 
Farewell, and be thou blest! — all words were vain 
For him who ne'er may view that form again; 
Him whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!" 

And is the warrior gone? — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear? 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid! — yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul. 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in Misery's eloquence relief; 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe. 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may 
flow ? 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 39 

The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved? 
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes, 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholding anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city! thou, that 'midst thy stately fanes. 
And gilded minarets, lowering o'er the plains, 
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies, 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their 

wave, (15) 
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave ; 
Mourn! for thy doom is fix'd — the days of fear 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, around thee are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell. 
But there a race that rear'd them shall not dwell; 
For 'midst thy counsels Discord still presides. 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides, 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeath'd a throne. 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high. 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall, 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. (16) 
Whose are those tones with power electric fraught. 
To reach the source of pure, exalted thought? 

See on a fortress-tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, standi 



40 TALES, AND HISTOPaC SCENES. 

His mien is all impassion M — and his eye 

Fill'd with a light whose fountain is on high; 

Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow. 

And inspiration beams upon his brow. 

While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze. 

As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile displayed. 
The helmets glittering, and the line array'd? 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?" he cries, 
^' Children of conquerors ! in your strength arise ! 
O high-born tribes ! oh names unstained by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear ! (17) 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. (18) 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come. 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevailed of yore. 
When Tarik^s bands o'erspread the western shore? (19) 
When the long combat raged on Xeres* plain, (20) 
And Afric's tecbir swelPd through yielding Spain? (21) 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay'd. 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismayed ? 
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth? 
To guard the regions where our fathers'^ blood 
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood. 
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil? 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow. 
Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain ! ye saw their might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight 1 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 41 

Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race, 
Dwell 'midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace? 
With each memorial of the past around, 
Each mighty monument of days renown'd? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold, 
This frame be gather'd to its kindred mould 1 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains! 

"And yet one struggle ere our doom is seaPd, 
One mighty effort, one deciding field! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be, 
In life the fetter'd, or in death the free!" 

Still while he speaks, each gallant heart beats high. 
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought, 
And all is hush'd around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But w4ien his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous cry 
Of eager thousands burst at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress, ring around, 
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resound : 
" Lead us, O chieftain ! lead us to the strife. 
To fame in death, or liberty in life ! " 
O zeal of noble hearts ! in vain display 'd ! 
High feeling w^asted ! generous hope betray'd ! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save. 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 

Your glorious trial on the field of fame, 

4* 



42 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES, 

Your king hath yielded ! Valour^s dream is a'er;(22) 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no more ; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage — the stranger's chains. 



CANTO III. 



Fermosei al fin il cor che balzo tanto. 

Ippolito Pindemcmte, 



Heroes of elder days 1 untaught to yield. 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field. 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore (23) 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore. 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued. 
Hallowed the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! 
Rejoice! — for Spain, arising in her strength. 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length; 
And they in turn the cup of woe must drain. 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior horn in happy hour, (24) 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone is power. 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by. 
Conqueror of Kings ! exult, O Cid ! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal. 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rush'd from their palmy groves and burning lands. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 43 

E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 

A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! (25) 

Then, at deep midnight, rose the mighty sound, 

By Leon heard, in shuddering awe profound. 

As through her echoing streets in dread array, 

Beings, once mortal, held their viewless way ; 

Voices from worlds we know not — and the tread 

Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead. 

Thou and thy buried chieftains — from the grave 

Then did thy summons rouse a king to save. 

And join thy warriors with unearthly might 

To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight. 

Those days are past — the crescent on thy shore, 

O realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more. (26) 

What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ? (27) 

The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 

What the glad shout of each exulting voice ? 

"Castile and Arragon ! rejoice, rejoice!" 

Yielding free entrance to victorious foes. 

The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, 

And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance 

Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh ! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque, or solemn festival of yore. 
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarch'd by cloudless and cerulean skies. 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers. 
Fountains, and palaces, and cypress bowers; 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng. 
With helmets glittering as they move along. 



44 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

With broider'd scarf, and gem-bestudded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 
Shields gold-emboss'd, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, 
All brighten'd by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse; 
Blend in one scene of glory, form'd to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow. 
And there too, foremost 'midst the conquering brave, 
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs ! wave. 
There Hamet moves ; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court. 
Calm, stern, collected — yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfest? 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn, yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around? 
The choral voices to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise? 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely train, 
Thev come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Rear'd and adorn'd by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast: (28) 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 45 

They enter — to their wondering sight is given 

A genii palace — an Arabian heaven ! (29) 

A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 

Its forms and colours seem alike of air. 

Here by sweet orange-boughs, half shaded o'er. 

The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor. 

Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues 

The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. 

There, round the court, v/here Moorish arches bend, 

Aerial columns, richly deck'd, ascend; 

Unlike the models of each classic race. 

Of Doric grandeur, or Corinthian grace. 

But answering well each vision that portrays 

Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze : 

Wild, w^ondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 

Of rainbow tints, above, around, below; 

Bright-streaming from the many-tinctured veins 

Of precious marble — and the vivid stains 

Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade. 

In gay festoons and fairy knots display'd. 

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams. 
The royal conquerors pass — while still their sight 
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 
Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, 
O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades, 
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 
The vast sierra, mingling with the sky. 
There, scattering far around their diamond spray. 
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play. 
Through pillar'd halls, where, exquisitely wrought. 
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 



46 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 

A wild, romantic, oriental mien : 

While many a verse from eastern bards of old. 

Borders the wall in characters of gold. (30) 

Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain. 

Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 

'Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood, 

And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 

Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs. 

From mingling voices of exulting throngs; 

Tambour, and flute, and atabal, are there, (31) 

And joyous clarions pealing on the air, 

While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 

Granada ! for Castile and Arragon ! " (32) 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling maze. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; (33) 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
'Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry. 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, 
Gall'd by the chain, though deck'd awhile with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast. 
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexprest. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 47 

Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet, 

Vengeance, and keen remorse, and vain regret. 

From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, 
Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene. 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien ? 
He, who, of heroes and of kings the son. 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won, 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have seal'd, 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave. 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies. 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies, (34) 
Yet pauses on his way, to weep in vain, 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires. 
The old majestic palace of his sires. 
The gay pavilions, and retired alcoves, 
Bosoni'd in citron and pomegranate groves; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight. 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanish'd years, 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Weep'st thou, Abdallah! — Thou dost well to weep, 
O feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep ! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. (35) 

The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda's bower. 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. 



48 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Nj voice, no step, is in her father's halls, 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate. 
But all is hush'd, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade. 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid; 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone. 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream whose music luli'd her to repose. 

But oh ! to him whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers 't was he that desolation wrought ; 
He who his country and his faith betray 'd. 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wave, low rippling, tells a mournful tale ; 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined. 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense. 
And seems to murmur — "Thou hast driven her 

hence ! " 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recall'd again ? 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn. 
His name can rouse no feeling now but scorn. 
O bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have sway'd so long, so fiercely, are at rest'. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 49 

Th' avenger's task is closed: (36) — he finds too late 

It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 

His was a lofty spirit, turn'd aside 

From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride, 

And onward, in its new tumultuous course. 

Borne with too rapid and intense a force 

To pause one moment in the dread career, 

And ask — if such could be its native sphere. 

Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 

Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more ; 

The feverish energies of passion close, 

And his heart sinks in desolate repose. 

Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less 

From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour in the sunbeam's glare, 
'Midst the wild Alpuxarras ; (37) — there, on high, 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, 
A few brave tribes, with, spirit yet unbroke. 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

O ye dread scenes, where Nature dwells alone. 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 
Veil'd by the mists, and girdled by the storms; 
Ravines, and glens, and deep-resounding caves, 
That hold communion with the torrent-waves; 
And ye, the unstain'd and everlasting snows. 
That dwell above in bright and still repose ; 
To you, in every clime, in every age. 
Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage. 
Hath Freedom led her sons: untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 
Vol. II. 5 



50 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

She, like the mountain eagle, still delights 
To gaze exulting from unconquer'd heights. 
And build her eyrie in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells. 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among. 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength hath nerved each frame. 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resistless spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born m.aids, that moved upon the earth, 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth. 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear 
All undismay'd, privation and distress. 
And smile, the roses of the wilderness. 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell. 
And rear their offspring 'midst the rocks, to be 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

And 'midst that band of veterans, o'er whose head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed: 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
O royal city ! and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallow'd most: — doth aught remain 
For these to prove of happiness or pain ? 
Life's cup is drain'd — earth fades before their eye; 
Their task is closing — they have bat to die. 
Ask ye, why fled they hither ? — that their doom 
Might be to sink unfetter'd to the tomb. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 51 

And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there; 
And buoyancy of spirit, form'd to dare 
And suffer all things, — fallen on evil days. 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze. 
As on th' arena, where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 

Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold. 
The high in heart, unconquer'd, uncontroll'd ; 
By day the huntsmen of the wild — by night, 
Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light. 
They from their bleak, majestic home have caught 
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought. 
While all around them bids the soul arise, 
To blend with Nature's dread sublimities. 
— But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 
Where tyranny is near: — the bended knee, 
The eye, whose glance no inborn grandeur fires. 
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; 
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 
On regal conquerors and defy their frown. 
What warrior-band is toiling to explore 
The mountain-pass, with pine- wood shadow'd o'er? 
Startling with martial sound each rude recess, 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. 
These are the sons of Spain! — Your foes are near: 
Oh, exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 
Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost caves. 
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves! 

Who leads th' invaders on? — his features bear 
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 



62 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

'T is he ! 't is he again ! the apostate chief; 

He comes in ail the sternness of his grief. 

He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 

Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, 

Against his country's children — though he leads 

Castilian bands again to hostile deeds : 

His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 

To rush upon the Moslem spears and die. 

So shall remorse and love the heart release. 

Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. 

The mountain-echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliflfe piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, 
There Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen. 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stain'd till then ; 
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears. 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers. 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait 
In dread suspense, the tidings of their fate. 
But he — whose spirit panting for its rest. 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast — - 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aim'd at another's breast, would still advance — 
Courts death in vain ; each weapon glances by. 
As if for him 'twere bliss too great to die. 
Yes ! Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee, ere Nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate can WTeak, 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 53 

Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath past. 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till few and faint the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpower'd by toil. 
Dispersed, dishearten'd through the pass they fly, 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high ; 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. 

Yet he to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home, 
Still urges onward — undismay'd to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread ; 
But fear is for the happy — they ma.j shrink 
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink; 
They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb ; 
Not such his lot, who, school'd by fate severe. 
Were but too bless'd if aught remain'd to fear. (38) 
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below; 
And by the fall whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way. 
He holds his venturous track: — supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell : 
Now hath his footstep gain'd the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath-flowers rise, 
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies: 
5* 



54 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side; 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en by noon of day 
Earth's charter'd guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray ; 
Around, untrodden woods; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove. 
Bare granite cliifs, whose fix'd, inherent dyes 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies; (39) 
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands. 
Pathless the scene as Libya's desert sands; 
Yet on the calm, still air, a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word 
Of Isiam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pines, and dark, luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign: — those mazes past. 
The glowdng sunbeams meet his eyes at last. 
And the lone wanderer now hath reach'd the source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry. 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 55 

So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round, 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles, and its vain regrets. 
— What earthly feeling unabash'd can dwell 
In Nature's mighty presence? — 'midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods. 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

'Midst the vast marble cliflfe, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; 
Shadow'd by giant oaks, and rude, and lone. 
It seems the temple of some power unknown. 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet, at the tone? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan ? 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, 
The unforgotten accents of the dead? 
E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance. 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er : 
He rushes on — and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughter'd sire she bends. 
Lost in despair; — yet as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity. 
She lifts her head, and, all subdued by grief. 
Views, with a wild, sad smile, the once-loved chief; 



56 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, 
And every woe forgetting — but the last. 

"Com'st thou to weep with me? — for I am left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain'd bier ; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear ! 
He sleeps — but never shall those eyes unclose; 
'T was not my voice that lull'd him to repose, 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thou mourn? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know. 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow ! " 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known 
name, 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance ; by affliction's power 
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour, 
To wake with tenfold strength; — 'twas then her eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty. 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips indignant accents flow. 

"Away! I dream — oh, how hath sorrow's might 
Bovv'd down my soul, and quench'd its native light, 
That I should thus forget, and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band ? 
The morn behold that conflict of despair: — 
'Twas then he fell — he fell ! — and thou wert there ! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge 'midst these mountains rude. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 67 

Was it for this I loved thee? — Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought ! 
'Twill soon be past — I bow to Heaven's decree. 
Which bade each pang be minister'd by thee." 

" I had not deem'd that aught remain'd below 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 
Oh, hear me yet! — I would have died to save 
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; 
But in the fierce confusion of the strife, 
In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught. 
Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 
And let me share thy sorrows — hadst thou known 
All I have felt in silence and alone, 
E'en thou might'st then relent, and deem at last 
A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

" But oh ! for thee, the loved and precious flower 
So fondly rear'd in luxury's guarded bower. 
From every danger, every storm secured. 
How hast thou suffer'd ! what hast thou endured, 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee? 
These rocks thy dwelling I thou, who shouldst have 

known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
Oh, yet forgive! — be all my guilt forgot. 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot ! '* 

" That lot is fix'd ; 't were fruitless to repine, 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 



58 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

1 may forgive — but not at will the heart 

Can bid its dark remembrances depart. 

No, Hamet, no ! — too deeply these are traced. 

Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 

Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 

Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep : 

E'en now, prophetic of my early doom, 

Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 

And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 

That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 

Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 

Of him for whom I lived and would have died: 

Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot. 

In pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

"And now, farewell! — behold the summer-day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh. 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare ! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn to fly? 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die!" 

E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave — they enter — slow their pace. 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's face. 
And all is hush'd — till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotedness, his fate. 
Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns. 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath : 
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death ! 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 59 

They close around him: — lofty still his mien, 
His cheek unalter'd, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry ; 
Fruitless her prayer, unmark'd her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend. 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
Oh! not in vain its daring — for the blow 
Aim'd at his heart hath made her life-blood flow; 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast. 
Where, in that hour, her head may calmly rest, 
For he is saved: — behold the Zegri band, 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand ; 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er. 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm: — a fading smile. 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while ; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved!. 
Yes, in an hour like this 't were vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill'd. 
But sterner duties call'd — and were fulfill'd : 
And I am blest! — To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, — and for thee I die I 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Sever'd on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer. 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare 1 



60 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and 
death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done, 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — Oh ! who may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, th' ordeals of the heart. 
By the dread Searcher of the soul surveyed ; 
These have no words — nor are by words portray 'd. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 
Far o'er the Alpuxarras; — wild its tone, 
And rocks and caverns echo " Thou art gone ! " 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 

To share his tomb who gave thee birth; 
Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 

It was not form'd for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race. 
Which brightly past, and left no trace. 

"But calmly sleep! — for thou art free. 

And hands unchain'd thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee. 
Life's few and evil days. 

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, 

The lingering death of Hberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 
Didst early to the storm resign : 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 61 

We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled, 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

" The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flow'd; 
Now, as a home from grief and fear, 

We hail thy dark abode ! 
We who but linger to bequeath 
Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 

" Have we not seen, despoil'd by foes. 
The land our fathers won of yore? 

And is there yet a pang for those 
Who gaze on this no more? 

Oh, that like them 't were ours to rest ! 

Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest ! " 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Sever'd in life, united in the tomb — 
Such of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal moan ; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze. 
Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days 

Vol. II.- -6 



62 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

(When Freedom fled, to hold, sequester'd there. 

The stern and lofty councils of despair). 

Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild. 

Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, 

Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 

Who thus have suffer'd, and who thus repose. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 
Not the light zamhra. 
Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

Note 2. 

Within the hall of Lions, 

The hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and 
was so called from twelve sculptured lions, which supported an 
alabaster basin in the centre. 

Note 3. 

His Aben-Zurrahs there young Hamet leads. 

Aben-Zurrahs ; the name thus written is taken from the trans- 
lation of an Arabic manuscript given in the third volume of 
Bourgoanne's Travels through Spain. 

Note 4. 
The Vegans green expanse. 

The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent 
actions between the Moors and Clirisiians. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 63 

Note 5. 

Seen ^ midst the redness of the desert storm. 

An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom. 
—See Bruce^s Travels. 

Note 6. 

Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o^er the dwellings of the desert passed. 
Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have 
the following account in Volney's Travels: "These winds are 
known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, 
because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding 
and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers 
under the name of the poisonous winds, or hot winds of the des- 
ert : their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea 
of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin 
to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes 
dark and heavy ; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a 
violet colour ; the air is not cloudy, but grey and thick, and is 
filled with a subtile dust, which penetrates everywhere: respira- 
tion becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the 
lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with 
internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, 
though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are 
deserted, and a dead silence appears everywhere. The natives 
of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and 
those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they 
wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. 
Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter : he 
must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal." 

Note 7. 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. 
"Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber." — Shakspearc. 

Note 8. 
On the green Vega won in single fight. 
Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat 
(in which he was the victor) v/ith a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. 



64 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Note 9. 

Who drank for man the hitter cup of tears. 

" El Rey D. Fernando bolvio a la Vega, y puso su Real a la 
vista de Huecar, a veynte y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde 
fue fortificado de todo lo necesario ; poniendo el Christiano toda 
su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real 
Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisaunChristocrucificado." — 
Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 10. 

From yon rich province of the western star. 

Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or of 
the west; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks. — See Casiri. 
Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana, Gibbon's Decline and Foil, &.c. 

Note 11. 
The snow-white charger^ and the azure crest. 
"Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y 
blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la 
misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages 
que desquixalavan leones, y ctros un mundo que lo deshazia un 
selvage con un baston." — Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 12. 
TA' eternal snow that crowns Veleta^s head. 
The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mul- 
hacen and Picacho de Veleta. 

Note 13. 

The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. 

It is known to be a frequent occurrence in battle, that the dying 
and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the 
shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field. 

Note 14. 
Severely beauteous. 
" Severe in youthful beauty." — Milton. 



the abencerrage. 65 

Note 15. 

While streams, that bear thee treasures in their wave. 
Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The 
Genii runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its 
stream small particles of gold, and the Genii, of silver. When 
Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city 
presented him with a crown, made of gold which had been col- 
lected from the Darro. — See Bourgoanne's and other Travels. 

Note 16. 

The hearts of warriors echo to its call* 

" At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk 
in indolence, one of those men, whose natural and impassioned 
eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, 
raised his voice, in the midst of the city, and awakened the inha- 
bitants from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged 
under his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of 
desperation, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid 
of his subjects than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitu- 
late, and made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed 
that the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion 
Lind laws ; should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart 
unmolested with their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he 
remained in Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses 
and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred 
retiring to Barbary." — See Jacobus Travels in Spain. 

Note 17. 

Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear ! 

Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of 
Granada, all of high distinction. 

Note 18. 

Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. 

The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil 

dissensions which, at this period, prevailed in the city. Several 

of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully pre- 

6* 



66 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

pared for submission to the Spaniards ; others had embraced the 
cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne 
of Abdallah (or Abo Abdeli), and all was jealousy and animosity. 

Note 19. 
When Tarik's bands overspread the western shore. 

Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. — 
" The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe : the cor- 
rupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) de- 
scribes the mountain of Tank, and the intrenchments of his camp 
were the first outline of those fortifications, which, in the hands 
of our countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the House 
of Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the court of To- 
ledo of the descent and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of 
his lieutenant, Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind 
the presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the mag- 
nitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and 
counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled 
at the head of their followers; and the title of king of the Romans, 
which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the 
close affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the 
nations of Spain." — Gibbon^s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. 
pp. 472, 473. 

Note 20. 
When the long combat raged on Xcres'' plain. 

" In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been 
illustrated by the encounter which determined tiie fate of the 
kingdom ; the stream of the Guadelete, which falls into the bay, 
divided the two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating 
skirmishes of three successive days. On the fourth day, the two 
armies joined a more serious and decisive issue." " Notwith- 
standing the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the weight 
of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen 
thousand of their dead bodies. — ' My brethren,' said Tarik to his 
surviving companions, ' the enemy is before you, the sea is behind ; 
whither would ye fly ? Follow your general ; I am resolved either 
to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.' 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 67 

Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret corre- 
spondence and nocturnal interviews of count Julian with the sons 
and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the archbishop 
of Toledo, occupied the most important post : their well-timed 
defection broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was 
prompted by fear or suspicion to consult his personal safety ; and 
the remains of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the 
flight and pursuit of the three following days." — Gibbon'' s De- 
cline and Fall, &c. vol. ix, pp. 473, 474. 

Note 21. 

And Afric's tecbir swelVd through yielding Spain. 

The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle. 

Note 22, 
Your king hath yielded! Valour^ s dream is o'er. 
The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular 
feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli's capitulation, 
*' Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto, y temiendo no ser ya el 
Dueno de un pueblo amotinado, se apresuro a concluir una capi- 
tulacion, la menos dura que podia obtener en tan urgentes circun- 
stancias, y ofrecio entregar a Granada el dia seis de Enero." — 
Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 298. 

Note 23. 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore. 
The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. 

Note 24. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour. 
See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is 
frequently styled, " he who was born in happy hour.'''* 

Note 25. 

E''en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain. 

" Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa, 
against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest 



68 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

power of the misbelievers that had ever been broug'ht against 
Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid 
Campeador remembered his country in that great danger ; for the 
night before the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the 
dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of 
Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great army passing through ; 
and it passed on to the royal monastery of St. Isidro, and there 
was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a 
priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him, that 
the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, 
and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up 
King Don Ferrando the Great, who lay buried in that church, 
that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the mor- 
row that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein 
sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slaifr, which was one of 
the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors." — 
Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 

Note 26. 
O realm of evening ! 
The name of Andalusia, the region of evening or of the west, 
was applied by the Arabs, not only to the province so called, but 
to the whole peninsula. 

Note 27. 

What banner streams afar from Vela's tower 7 

"En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la 
Cruz, de St. Tago, y de los Reyes de Castilla se tremolaron sobre 
la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela ; y un exercito prosternado, 
inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas 
glorioso de los espectaculos." — Paseos en Granada^ vol. i. p. 599 

Note 28. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast. 

Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. 
in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: "Adjoining (to 
the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 69 

seen, all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention 
of forming one habitation out of them. The walls are entirely 
unornamented, all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster 
by a very coarse hand ; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings 
of Granada, indisputably the most curious place within that exists 
in Spain, perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see 
excellent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and 
in ruins ; but nothing to be met with anywhere else can convey 
an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the decorations of 
an opera, or the tales of the geniL — Swinburne's Travels through 
Spain. 

Note 29. 

A genii palace — an Arabian heaven, 

" Passing round the corner of the emperor's palace, you are 
admitted at a plain unornaraented door, in a corner. On my first 
visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the 
threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of 
fairy land. The first place you come to is the court called the 
Communa, or del Mesucar, that is, the common baths: an oblong 
square, with a deep basin of clear water in the middle ; two 
flights of marble steps leading down to the bottom ; on each side 
a parterre of flowers, and a row of orange-trees. Round the court 
runs a peristyle paved with marble ; the arches bear upon very 
slight pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular 
orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated 
with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate, that the most 
patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless he 
made himself master of the general plan." — Swinburne's Travels 
in Spain, 

Note 30. 

Borders the walls in characters of gold. 

The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with 
inscriptions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode of 
magnificence," says Bourgoanne, " the observer is every moment 
astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and 
poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection 



70 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

of fugitive pieces ; and whatever duration these may have, time, 
with which everything passes away, has too much contributed to 
confirm to them that title." — See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain, 

Note 31. 

Tambour, and Jlute, and atabalf are there, 
Atabal» a kind of Moorish drum. 

Note 32. 
Granada! for Castile and Arragon! 
"Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alharnbra, y 
encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levanto la senal de 
la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos 
reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, a grandes bozes dizieron, 
' Granada ! Granada I per su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.* 
La serenissima reyna D. Isabel que vio la senal de la Santa Cruz 
sobre la hermosa torre de Cotnares, y el su estandarte real con 
ella, se hinco de Rodillas, y dio infinitas gracias a Dios por la vic- 
toria que le avia dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica 
real de la capilla del rey luego a canto de organo canto Te Deum 
laudamus. Fue tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego 
del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas 
trompetas. Los M&ros amigos del rey, que querian ser Chris- 
tianos^ cuya cabeza era el valeroso Mu9a, tomaron mil dulzaynas 
y anafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atarabores por toda la ciudad.'* 
Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 33. 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze. 

" Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron 
galanamente alcancias y canas. Andava Granada aquella noche 
con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se 
ardia la tierra.**^ — Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 
and 1776, mentions that the anniversary of the surrender of Gra- 
nada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a 
great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that 
occasion paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 71 

Note 34. 

To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies, 

** Los Gomeles todos se passaron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con 
ellos, que no quiso estar en Espana, y en Africa le mataron los 
Moros de aqiiellas partes, porque perdio a Granada." — Guerras 
Civiles de Granada. 

Note 35. 

Of him who knew not, as a many to die. 

Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdi- 
nand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look 
of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into 
tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness 
Ayxa: "Thou dost well to weep, like a woman, over the loss of 
that kingdom which thou knewest not how to defend and die for 
like a man." 

Note 36. 

TA' avenger'' s task is closed. 

" El rey mando, que si quedevan Zegris, que no viviessen en 
Granada, por la maldad que hizieron contra los Abencerrages." — 
Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

Note 37. 

''Midst the wild Alpuxarras. 

" The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the 
cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits ; 
they are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga 
to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit-trees of 
great beauty and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched 
remains of the Moors took refuge." — Bourgoanne's Travels in 
Spain. 

Note 38. 
Were but too blest if aught remain'd to fear. 
" Plut a Dieu que je craignisse 1" — Andromaque. * 



72 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Note 39. 

Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies. 

Mrs. RadclifFe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine^ 
thus describes the colours of the granite rocks in the mountains 
of the Bergstrasse. " The nearer we approached these moun- 
tains, the more we had occasion to admire the varioas tints of their 
granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then 
of a deep red, a doll purple, or a blush approaching to lilac, and 
sometimes gjeams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs 
that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, 
and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions 
of aerial colouring ; the real hues of their features were as beau- 
tiful, as their magnitude was sublime." 



THE 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



" L'orage peut briser en un moment les flenrs qui tiennent encore la tSte 
levee." Mad. de Stael. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

" In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, 
excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to 
restore the ancient glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to 
shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the Popes, whose 
vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul 
was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which, long after- 
wards, continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, 
after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered 
into negotiations ; and pledging his imperial word to respect the 
life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the 
unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately 
beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, con- 
cealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which 
she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband 
and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount 
Gargana, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to 
undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain 
his confidence ; and a poison administered by her was soon after- 
wards the cause of his painful death." — See Sismondij History 
of the Italian Republics, vol. i. 

Vol. II. 7 (73) 



74 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



PART I. 

'Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades. 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades. 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song, 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears, 
But o'er the wrecks of other years, 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig-tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; (1) 
The cypress, in funereal grace. 
Usurps the vanish'd column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze, 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide, 
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride ; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument ? (2) 
Now Athens weeps her scatter 'd fanes. 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd. 
We need no prescient sibyl there, 
The doom of grandeur to declare. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 75 

Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time: 
Each relic utters Fate's decree. 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tiber's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale ? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome. 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home? 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record. 
There dwelt the world's departed lord! 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, 
And sunshine, on each glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom, (3) 
Though vanish'd with the days of old 
Its pillars of G)rinthian mould; 
And the fair forms by sculpture wrought. 
Each bodying some immortal thought. 
Which o'er that temple of the dead. 
Serene, but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In Time's abyss or Tiber's wave : (4) 
Yet dreams more lofty, and more fair, 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er. 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind. 
Expanding when all else declined. 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home^ 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 



76 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

There he, who strove in evil days. 
Again to kindle glory's rays. 
Whose spirit sought a path of light. 
For those dim ages far too hright, 
Crescentius long maintain'd the strife, 
Which closed but with its martyr's life. 
And left the imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; (5) 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last, 
Spoke with the voice of ages past, (6) 
Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled. 
To mingle with the glorious dead, 
That 'midst the world's degenerate race. 
They vainly sought a dwelling-place. 
Within that house of death didst brood 
O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. 
Yet worthy of a brighter lot, 
Rienzi ! be thy faults forgot ! 
For thou, when all around thee lay 
Chain 'd in the slumbers of decay; 
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 
Had scarce a tear for liberty; 
Alone, amidst the darkness there, 
Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair 1(7) 

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height. 
And yellow Tiber wmds in light. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 77 

Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd 

The wild Campagna's solitude. 

'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 

Those relics of a vanished race ; 

Yet o'er the ravaged path of time. 

Such glory sheds that brilliant clime. 

Where nature still, though empires fall. 

Holds her triumphant festival ; 

E'en desolation wears a smile. 

Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 

And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom. 

Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; 
She, whose rich flow of raven hair 
Streams wildly on the morning air; 
Heeds not how fair the scene below. 
Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 
Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth. 
Lie spread beneath : not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ;^ • 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 
Qn Hadrian!s massy- tomb alone ; 
There,' from, the storm when Freedom fled, 
His faithful few Crescentius led ! 
While she, his anxious bride, who now 
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow. 
Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane, 

Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

7# 



78 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er. 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore. 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound. 
Could burst the dead repose around. 
Again his native Rome shall see. 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower. 
Her ardent heart with joy elate. 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above. 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ! 
A meaning lofty and inspired. 
As by her native day-star fired: 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassioned thought. 
As fancy sheds in visions bright 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ! 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace. 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise; 
But deepen'd by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 



VriDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 79 

And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness ; — 
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see, — the banner of the brave 
O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
*Tis lower 'd — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry, 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from her watch-tower on the height. 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light. 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead. 
And paths which track a glowing waste. 
She traverses in breathless haste : 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined, 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind. 
Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd. 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 

Is it their high-soul'd chief to greet. 
That thus the Roman thousands meet? 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius, thine in song to blend; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry ? 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 



80 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

And now a fearful silence round. 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step, and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along. 
How did thine anxious heart beat high. 
Till rose suspense to agony ! 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands, 
With fearless mien, but fetter'd hands? 
The ministers of death are nigh. 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; 
And in his glance . there lives a mind. 
Which was not form'd for chains to bind. 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won? 
Oh, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close. 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice to burst the yoke. 
The soul of Rome indignant woke? 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, (8) 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : (9) 
Th' illusions that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been past. (10) 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 81 

Thy life hath been a shot star's ray. 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay : 
Thy death at Freedom's ruin'd shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fix'd upon the deep-blue sky, 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled, 
Around in desolation spread; 
Arch, temple, column, worn and grey, 
Recording triumphs pass'd away; 
Works of the mighty and the free, 
Whose steps on earth no more shall be. 
Though their bright course hath left a trace 
Nor years nor sorrows can eiface. 

Why changes now the patriot's mien, 
Erewhile so loftily serene ? 
Thus can approaching death control 
The might of that commanding soul? 
No! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 
Which told of bitterest agony? 
He heard it, and, at once subdued. 
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 
He heard it, and his heart too well 
Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 
And 'midst the gazing throngs around 
One well-known form his glance hath found ; 
One fondly loving and beloved. 
In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 
Yes, in the wildness of despair, 
She, his devoted bride, is there. 
Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies. 
The light of frenzy in her eyes: 



82 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

But ere her arms can clasp the form 
Which hfe ere long must cease to warm ; 
Ere on his agonizing hreast 
Her heart can heave, her head can rest; 
Check'd in her course by ruthless hands, 
Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance. 
Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance; 
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled. 
And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead. 
And the light waving of her hair, 
And veil, far floating on the air. 
Alone, in that dread moment, show. 
She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er. 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more; 
But hers — so vainly form'd to prove 
The pure devotedness of love. 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high; 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge — but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain; 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies. 
But in the glow of vernal pride, 
If each warm hope at once hath died. 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower. 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower; 
A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scatter'd — ne'er to reunite. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 83 



PART II. 

Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled? 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell? 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, 
And Nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled, 
When thou wert Freedom's favour'd child : 
Though fane and tomb alike are low, 
Time hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow ; 
And robed in that exulting ray. 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay; 
O yet, though by thy sorrows bent. 
In nature's pomp magnificent ! 
What marvel if, when all was lost, 
Still on thy bright enchanted coast. 
Though many an omen warnM him thence, 
Linger'd the lord of eloquence ! (11) 
Still gazing on the lovely sky. 
Whose radiance woo'd him — but to^die: 
Like him, who would not linger there. 
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? 
Who 'midst thy glowing scenes could dwell. 
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell ? 
Hath not thy pure and genial air 
Balm for all sadness but despair? (12) 
No ! there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace 
Not all thy magic can efface ! 



84 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Hearts, by unkindness wrung, may learn 
The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 
Time may steal on with silent tread, 
And dry the tear that mourns the dead ; 
May change fond love, subdue regret, 
And teach e'en vengeance to forget : 
But thou. Remorse ! there is no charm 
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 
Vain are bright suns, and laughing skies, 
To soothe thy victim's agonies: 
The heart once made thy burning throne. 
Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius, on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light. 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower, 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where through Gargano's woody dells. 
O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells, (13) 
A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 85 

Around that dweller of the wild 

There "bright appearances" have smiled, (14) 

And angel-wings, at eve, have been 

Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 

And oft from that secluded bower 

Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 

A swell of viewless harps, a sound 

Of warbled anthems pealing round. 

Oh, none but voices of the sky 

Might wake that thrilling harmony. 

Whose tones, whose very echoes, made 

An Eden of the lonely shade ! 

Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ! 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veil'd his low, sepulchral stone : 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 
Around those forest-precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, — but still remote. 
Oft wdll Affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint, 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 
*Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead. 

Vol. 11. 8 



86 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With Nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search — his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest; 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er, 
The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day, 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 
The light of health his eye hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour ; 
E'en thus he withers; and to him, 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow, 
From him alone their power withhold. 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair, 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, 
When breathes his minstrel-boy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain ; 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th' ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 
Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 87 

Sweet is that lay, and yet its flow 

Hath language only given to woe ; 

And if at times its wakening swell 

Some tale of glory seems to tell, 

Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 

Lost in a dirge's harmony : 

Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved, 

Hath deeply suffer'd, fondly loved. 

Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 

Such deep impassioned eloquence ! 

Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel-boy — 

He is no child of hope and joy ; 

Though few his years, yet have they been 

Such as leave traces on the mien. 

And o'er the roses of our prime 

Breathe other blights than those of time. 

Yet, seems his spirit wild and proud. 
By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart. 
And rushing with an earthquake's power. 
That makes a desert in an hour ; 
Rouse the dread passions in their course. 
As tempests wake the billows' force ! — 
'Tis sad on youthful Guido's face, 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind? 

His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays: 
His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light. 



88 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow: 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still, unexpressed. 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals. 
All other passion well conceals. 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only pour'd 
Through his full song and swelling chord 
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay, 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill. 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along. 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scatter'd o'er the silent plains; 
Or, lingering 'midst each ruin'd shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful, yet commanding mien. 
Like the sad Genius of the scene. 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 
The mighty to their ancient halls; 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 89 

When hush'd is every meaner sound. 
And the deep moonhght-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown ; 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, 
He w^anders through the sacred gloom; 
And, 'midst those dwellings of decay. 
At times will breathe so sad a lay. 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'T is like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain. 
Young Guido ! for awhile forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 
To speed the banquet's hour along ! 
The feast is spread ; and music's call 
Is echoing through the royal hall. 
And banners wave, and trophies shine. 
O'er stately guests in glittering line; 
And Otho seeks awhile to chase 
The thoughts he never can erase, 
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 
Rise like a spirit on his sleep. 
The still small voice of conscience die. 
Lost in the din of revelry. 
On his pale brow dejection lowers, 
But that shall yield to festal hours; 
A gloom is in his faded eye. 
But that from music's power shall fly: 
His wasted cheek is wan with care. 
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 
8* 



90 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, 
Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 
And pour upon th' enraptured ear 
Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 
And banish all resembling woe ; 
And, if a thought intrude, of power 
To mar the bright convivial hour. 
Still must its influence lurk unseen. 
And cloud the heart — but not the mien! 

Away, vain dream! — on Otho's brow 
Still darker lower the shadows now; 
Changed are his features, now o'erspread 
With the cold paleness of the dead; 
Now crimson'd with a hectic dye. 
The burning flush of agony ! 
His lip is quivering, and his breast 
Heaves, with convulsive pangs oppress'd; 
Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed. 
And now to heaven in anguish raised; 
And as, with unavailing aid. 
Around him throng his guests dismay'd. 
He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 
Hath power to falter — "This is death!" 

Then rush'd that haughty child of song. 
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng; 
Fill'd with a strange delirious light, 
His kindling eye shone wildly bright. 
And on the sufferer's mien awhile 
Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 
A feverish glow of triumph dyed 
His burning cheek, while thus he cried: — 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 91 

"Yes! these are death-pangs — on thy brow 
Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 
Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught. 
And long and deeply hast thou quaff'd; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be, 
They are but guerdons meet from me ! 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath. 
My life hath been a lingering death; 
Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 
A blood-spot on the page of time ! 

" Deem'st thou my mind of reason void 1 
It is not frenzied, — but destroy 'd! 
Ay ! view the wreck with shuddering thought, — 
That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! 

" The secret of thy doom to tell. 
My name alone suffices well ! 
Stephania! once a hero's bride! 
Otho! thou know'st the rest — he died. 
Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word. 
The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 
And thou, whose every pledge was vain. 
How couldst thou trust in aught again ? 

"He died,* and I was changed — my soul, 
A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control. 
From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd. 
The outcast of a purer world, 
I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown. 
And lived for one dread task alone. 
The task is closed — fulfiU'd the vow, 
The hand of death is on thee now. 



92 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Betrayer ! in thy turn betray'd, 
The debt of blcx)d shall soon be paid! 
Thine hour is come — the time hath been 
My heart had shrunk from such a scene; 
That feeling long is past — my fate 
Hath made me stern as desolate. 

" Ye, that around me shuddering stand. 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom? 
— Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! 
He sleeps unhonour'd — yet be mine 
To share his low, neglected shrine. 
His soul with freedom finds a home, 
His grave is that of glory — Rome ! 
Are not the great of old with her. 
That city of the sepulchre ? 
Lead me to death ! and let me share 
The slumbers of the mighty there!" 

The day departs — ^^that fearful day 
Fades in calm loveliness away ; 
From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream. 
And softly tints each Roman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still. 
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe,- 
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene; 
One guilty bosom throbs no more. 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 98 

Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. — 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh ! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away. 
Like the wild billows as they sweep. 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



NOTES. 



Note L 

Cer Hadrian's mouldering villa twine. 

" J'etais alle passer quelques jours scul a Tivoli. Je parcourus 
ses environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par 
la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai dans les Salles 
des Thermes voisins du Pecile (monumens de la villa), sous un 
figuier qui avait renverse le pan d'un mur en s'elevant. Dans un 
petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait 
perce la voute de I'edifice, et son gros cep lissc, rouge, et tor- 
tueux, raontait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de 
moi, a travers les arcades des mines, s'ouvraient des points de 
vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplis- 



,94 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

saient les salles desertes ou venaient se refugier quelques merles 
solitaires. Les fragmens de ma^onnerie etaient tapisses des 
feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinee se dessinait 
comme un travail en mosaique sur la blancheur des marbres: 9a 
et la de hauts cypres remplacaient les colonnes tombees dans ces 
palais de la Mort ; I'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs pieds, sur 
des debris, comme si la nature s'etait plu a reproduire sur ces 
chefs-d'oeuvre mutiles de I'architecture, I'ornement de leur beaute 
passee. Chateaubriand. Souvenirs d'ltalie. 

Note 2. 
Of each imperial monument. 

The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa vv^ere copies of 
the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions; the 
Lycseum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple 
of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &.c. 

Note 3. 

Sunk is thy palace^ but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 
The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St. Angelo, was 
first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful 
defence of Rome against the Goths. " The lover of the arts," 
says Gibbon, " must read with a sigh, that the works of Praxi- 
teles and Lysippus were torn irom their lofty pedestals, and 
hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers." He adds, 
in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barbarini 
palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St. 
Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the 
noles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman 
government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the 
original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, 
its Cormthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its 
summit. 

Note 4. 

Have founds like glory^s self, a grave, 
In time's abyss, or Tiber^s wave. 
"Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables sta- 
tues ont ete jetees dans le Tibre, et sont cachees sous ses flols. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 95 

Qui salt si, pour les chercher, on ne le detournera pas un jour 
de son \it1 Mais quand on songe que les chef-d'oBuvres du genie 
humain sont peuletre la devant nous, et qu'un obiI plus per9ant 
les verrait a travers les ondes, Ton eprouve je ne sais quelle emo- 
tion qui renait a Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait 
trouver une societe pour la pensee dans les objects physiques, 
muets partout ailleurs." Mad. de Stael. 

Note 5. 

There closed De Brescia's mission high^ 
From thence the 'patriot came to die. 

Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of 
Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient 
constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by 
Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, Histoire 
des Repuhliques Italiennes, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. " Le pre- 
fect demeura dans le chateau Saint Ange avec son prisonnier; il 
le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinee aux executions, 
devant la Porte du Peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, eleve sur un 
bucher, fut attache a un poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit 
mesurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant 
son echafaud ; elles font presqu'une moitie de Rome. C'est la 
qu'habitoient les hommes qu'il avoit si souvent appeles a la lib- 
erte. lis reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur 
legislateur. Le tumulte de I'execution et la flamme du bucher 
reveillerent les Romains; ils s'armerent, ils accoururent, mais 
trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repousserent, avec leurs lances, 
ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir 
ses cendres comme de precieuses reliques." 

Note 6. 

Spoke with the voice of ages past. 

" Posterity will compare the virtues and failings of this extraor- 
dinary man ; butiin a long period of anarchy and servitude the 
name of Ricnzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his 
country, and the last of the Roman patriots." — Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall, <^c. vol. xii. p. 362. 



96 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Note 7. 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair! 

" Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu'^ 
Venouse: cet homme de la plus basse naissance, n'avoit ete eleve 
au consulat que pour mortitier la noblesse : mais le senat ne vou- 
lut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe ; il vit combien il etoit 
necessaire qu'il s'attirat dans cette occasion la confiance du peu- 
ple, il alia au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il n'avoit 

pas desespere de la republique.^^ Montesquieu. Grandeur 

et Decadence des Romains. 

Note 8. 

Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone. 

Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were kept 
in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account. 
" In the eighth year of Nuraa's reign a pestilence prevailed in 
Italy ; Rome also felt its ravages. While the people were 
greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from hea- 
ven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful 
account, received from Egeria and the Muses: that the buckler 
was sent down for the preservation of the city, and should be 
kept with great care : that eleven others should be made as like 
it as possible in size and fashion, in order that if any person were 
disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which 
fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the 
place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently conversed 
with the Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities ; and 
that the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the 
use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their tem- 
ple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said to have 
confirmed the truth of this account." • Life of Numa. 

Note 9. 

Sunk is the crowning city's throne. 

" Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning 
city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the hon- 
ourable of the earth 1 " Isaiah, chap, xxiii. 



WIDOW OP CRESCENTIUS. 97 

Note 10. 

Their guardian spells have long been past. 

" Un melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame et de foiblesse entroit 
des cette epoque (Ponzieme siecle) dans le caractere des Re- 
mains. — Un mouvement genereux vers les grandes choses faisoit 
place tout-a-coup a I'abattement; i]s passoient de la liberie la 
plus orageuse, a la servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit 
que les ruines et les portiques deserts de la capitale du monde, 
entretenoient ses habitans dans les sentimens de leur impuissance ; 
au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passee, les cit- 
oyens eprouvoient d'une maniere trop decourageante leur propre 
nullite. Le nom des Remains qu'il portoit ranimoit frequemment 
leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd'hui; mais 
bientot la vue de Rome, du Forum desert, des sept collines de 
nouveau rendues au paturage des troupeaux, des temples desoles, 
des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit a sentir qu'ils 

n'etoient plus les Remains d'autrefois." Sismondi. Histoire 

des Repuhliques Italiennes, vol. i. p. 1?2. 

Note 11. 
Linger'' d the lord of eloquence ? 

" As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a ves- 
sel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circseum 
with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately 
to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, 
or had not yet given up all his hopes in Caesar, he disembarked, 
and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the 
place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left 
that road and made again for the sea. He passed the night in 
the most perplexing and horrid thoughts ; insomuch, that he was 
sometimes inclined to go privately into Caesar's house and stab 
himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine 
vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by 
the fear of torture. Other alternatives equally distressful pre- 
sented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his 
servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where 
he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian 
winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from 

Vol. II. 9 



98 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero's 
vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the 
sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends 
of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero 
went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose him- 
self. In the mean time a number of crows settled in the cham- 
ber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of 
them even entered it, and alighting on the bed, attempted, with 
its beak, to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his 
face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. 
' Shall we,' said they, ' remain to be spectators of our master's 
murder 1 Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a 
sufferer as he is, when the brute creatures give him marks of their 
care and attention!' Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, 
they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea." — 
Plutarch. Life of Cicero. 

Note 12. 

Balm for all sadness hut despair? 

"Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." Milton. 

INOTE 13. 

O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells. 

Mount Gargano. " This ridge of mountains forms a very largo 
promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the 
Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severe. 
We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady 
dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable 
groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping 
along the rugged sides of Garganus. 

* Aquilonibus 
Querceta Gargani laborant, 
Et foUis viduantur orni.' Horace. 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 99 

There is a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, 
pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys 
are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant 
vegetation." Swinburne's Travels. 

Note 14. 

There "bright appearances^^ have smiled. 

'In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
His bright appearances, or footstep trace V — Milton. 



THE LAST BANQUET 



OF 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



" Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably 
than in battle, determined to attack Csesar at the same time both 
by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this 
design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best 
services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the 
day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay 
extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them 
or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him 
talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged thorn by 
assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at 
least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, 
when universal silence reigned through the city, a silence that 
was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day, on a sud- 
den was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise 
which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumult- 
uous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go 
out at the gate which led to the enemy's camp. Those who 
reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom 
Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him." Lang- 
home's Plutarch. 



Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 
O stately Alexandria! — yet the sound 

Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swell'd from thy splendid fabrics far around 
9 * (101) 



102 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 
In gay magnificence the feast was spread; 

And brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 

O'er many a column rich with precious dyes. 

That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play'd 

O'er sculptured forms that round the pillar'd scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art array'd 

In god-like beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board! — in every face 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace. 
Though vainly mask'd in smiles which are not mirth. 
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of 
earth. 

Their brows are bound with wreaths whose transient 
bloom 

May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be wither'd when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle — and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine-cup high! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possess'd 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest 

Its joys! oh! mark yon proud triumvir's mien. 
And read their annals on that brow of care ! 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 103 

'Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been; 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by; 
There is delusion in its meteor-fire, 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow. 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe. 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

O lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow 
To that ascendant and undying name, 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed — but hath left 

A lingering light around thee — in decay 
Not less than kingly, though of all bereft. 

Thou seem'st as empire had not pass'd away. 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate, 
A deep, prophetic dread of still mysterious fate! 

But thou, enchantress-queen ! whose love hath made 

His desolation — thou art by his side. 
In all thy sovereignty of charms array'd. 

To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour; 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. 

Thine aspect all impassion'd wears a light 
Inspiring and inspired — thy cheek a dye, 

Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 
With the deep glow of feverish energy. 



104 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 
With an immortal fire — in every heam 

It darts, there kindles some heroic thought. 
But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 

For thou with death hast communed, to attain 

Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the 
chain. (1) 

And the stern courage by such musings lent. 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes ! 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored. 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soar'd. 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set; 
Scarce his fond heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondly loved by thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around. 

Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he cries, 

" Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies. 

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep. 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea. 
And the red bowl again is crown'd — but not for me. 

"Yet weep not thus — the struggle is not o'er, 
O victors of Philippi ! — many a field 

Hath yielded palms to us: — one efibrt more. 
By one stern conflict must our fate be seal'd ! 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 105 

Forget not, Romans! o'er a subject world 
How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 

Though from his eyrie of dominion hurl'd. 
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head; 

Yet sovereign still, if banish'd from the sky. 

The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop — but die." 

The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep : 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom. 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; 

Rest, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb. 
Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease. 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers, wake ! Hark ! heard ye not a sound 

Of gathering tumult? — near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around 

Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets the tread 

Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth. 
Mingle their thousand tones which are not of the 
earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling strain 
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; 

And the deep horror chilling every vein 
Owns them of stern, terrific augury. 



106 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

O ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals — thy doom — "Despair 
and die! "(2) 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain, 

Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being 
desirous to ascertain which was least painful in the operation, she 
tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick 
in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and 
convulsions ; such as were mildest were slow in their effect : she 
therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous crea- 
tures ; at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most 
eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of leth- 
argy. See Plutarch. 

Note 2. 

Despair and diet 

"To-morrow in the battle think on me, 
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!" 

Richard III. 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 



After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the Ger- 
man and Scythian hordes, united under the command of Alaric, 
the historian of " The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire" 
thus proceeds: — "Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were 
the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable 
ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity, nor satiated 
by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, 
than he was attracted by the neighbouring" prospect of a fair and 
peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered 
only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which 
he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The 
straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, 
in the narroA^est passage, about one mile and a half broad; and 
the fabulous monsters of the deep, the rocks of Scylla, and the 
whirlpool of Charybdis, could terrify none but the most timid and 
unskilful mariners : yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths 
had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered 
many of the transports : their courage was daunted by the terrors 
of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the pre- 
mature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal 
term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians 
was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune 
they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a cap- 
tive multitude they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, 
a small river that washes the walls of Consentia, The royal 
sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, 
was constructed in the vacant bed ; the waters were then restored 
to their natural channel, and the secret spot, where the remains 
of Alaric had been deposited, was for ever concealed by the inhu- 

(107) 



108 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

man massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to exe- 
cute the work." See The Decline and Fall of the Roman 

Empire, vol. v. p. 329. 



Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? 
The march of hosts, as Alaric pass'd? 
His steps have track'd that glorious clime. 
The birth-place of heroic time ; 
But he, in northern deserts bred. 
Spared not the living for the dead, (1) 
Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He pass'd — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains; 
And woke they not — the brave, the free. 
To guard their own Thermopylae ? 
And left they not their silent dwelling. 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling ? 
No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept. 
Sad Freedom battled not — but wept! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand. 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke. 
When Athens own'd the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair? 
O city of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills. 
As doth a clarion's battle-call, 
Didst thou too, ancient empress, fall? 
Did not Camillus from the chain 
Kansom thy Capitol again? 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 109 

Oh! who shall tell the days to be. 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee? 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? 
The march of hosts, as Alaric pass'd? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep, (2) 
Burst on th' eternal city's sleep : 
How woke the mighty ? she, whose will 
So long had bid the world be still. 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
Th' ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke — to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Pour'd from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gave 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave. 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower, 
Reveal'd the throngs, for aid divine 
Clinging to many a worshipp'd shrine ; 
Fierce, fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword with carnage red. 
Shone o'er the vsuppliant and the flying, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas ! that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 
The time hath been when thy distress 
Had roused up empires for redress! 
Now, her long race of glory run. 
Without a combat Rome is w^on. 
And from her plunder'd temples forth 
Rush the fierce children of the north, 

Vol. n. 10 



110 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

To share beneath more genial skies 
Each joy their own rude chme denies* 

Ye who on bright Campania's shore 
Bade your fair villas rise of yore, 
With all their graceful colonnades, 
And crystal baths and myrtle shades. 
Along the blue Hesperian deep. 
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep ; 
Beneath your olive and your vine 
Far other inmates now recline. 
And the tail plane, whose roots ye fed 
With such libations duly shed, (3) 
O'er guests, unlike your vanish'^d friends. 
Its bowery canopy extends : 
For them the southern heaven is glowing. 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing; 
For them the marble halls unfold. 
Where nobler beings dwelt of old, 
Whose children for barbarian lords 
Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords. 
Or wreaths of Paestan roses twine. 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Yet though luxurious they repose 
Beneath Corinthian porticoes. 
While round them into being start 
The marvels of triumphant art; 
Oh! not for them hath Genius given 
To Parian stone the fire of heaven, 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought. 
In vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise, 



ALARIC IN ITALY. Ill 

And sculptured nymphs, of fount or glade, 
People the dark-green laurel shade; 
Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity; 
And rude his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights! 
Chieftains! the war-note's call irfvites; 
And other lands must yet be won. 
And other deeds of havoc done. 
Warriors! your flowery bondage break. 
Sons of the stormy north, awake ! 
The barks are launching from the steep. 
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, (4) 
And Afric's burning winds afar 
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war 
Where shall his race of victor}^ close? 
When shall the ravaged earth repose? 
But hark ! w^hat wildly mingling cries 
From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise? 
Why swells dread Alaric's name on air? 
A sterner conqueror hath been there! 
A conqueror — yet his paths are peace. 
He comes to bring the world's release; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
Th' avenger, the deliverer — Death! 

Is then that daring spirit fled? 
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? 
Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength. 
And he and earth are calm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines. 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; 



112 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The land by conquest made his own. 
Can yield him now — a grave alone. 
But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 
No common sepulchre shall be ! 
Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye 
Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! 
Where mortal foot may never tread 
Above a victor-monarch's bed. 
Let not his royal dust be hid 
'IVeath star-aspiring pyramid; 
Nor bid the gather'd mound arise,^ 
To bear his memory to the skies* 
Years roll away — oblivion claims 
Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 
And hands profane disturb the cla.y 
That once was fired with glory's ray I 
And Avarice, from their secret gloom^ 
Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 
But thou^ O leader of the free ! 
That general doom awaits not thee ! 
Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 
Shalt rest in regal solitude, 
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 
Th' Awakener's final trumpet sound. 
Turn ye the waters from their course. 
Bid Nature yield to human force. 
And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obey'd his lord's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past. 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 113 

The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plundered Rome : 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean-waves in stillness gleaming, 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victory's toil, 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave; 
Then streams the martyr'd captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood. 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath past on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept; 
Temples of gods, and domes of kings, 
Are mouldering wdth forgotten things; 
Yet shall not ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest: 
Still rolls, like them, th' unfailing river. 
The guardian of his dust for ever. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 
Spared not the living for the dead. 
After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though such numbers 
were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent 
10* 



114 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What 
reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any 
mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty 
of Sylla; yet partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, 
and the exiles who threw themselves at bis feet, partly by the 
entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, 
and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last pre- 
vailed upon to stop his band, and in compliment to the ancient 
Athenians, he said, ' he forgave the many for the sake of the fe\v, 
the living for the dead.'''''' Plutarch, 

Note 2. 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep. 

"At the hour of midnight, the Salarian gate was silently 
opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous 
sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three 
years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had 
subdued and civilized so considerable a portion of mankind, was 
delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and 

Scythia." Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 

311. 

Note 3. 

With rich libations duly shed. 

The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on 
account of its extraordinary shade ; and they used to nourish it 
with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple 
observes, that " This tree loved that liquor as well as those who 

used to drink under its shade." See the Notes to MelmotKs 

Pliny. 

Note 4. 

Soon shall the isle of Ceres weep. 

Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar 
dominion of Ceres. 



THE 

WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



" This governor, who had braved death when it was at a dis- 
tance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive 
Carthage, this fierce Asdrubal, was so mean-spirited, as to come 
alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror's feet. The 
general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, 
and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the 
citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned 
the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul 
in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to con- 
tend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to 
despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second 
citadel within the first ; there the proconsul attacked them ; and 
these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set 
fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from 
one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building; there 
Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her 
death had been a day of triumph ; and after having uttered the 
most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw 
standino- below with Emilianus, — "Base coward!" said she, 
" the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail 
thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children." 
Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, 
and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the 
top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames."— 
Ancient Universal History. 



The sun sets brightly — but a ruddier glow 

O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw; 

Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 

Tn lurid splendour from her domes aspire ; 

ai.>) 



116 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Sway'd by the wind, they wave — while glares the 

sky. 
As when the desert's red Simoom is nigh : 
The sculptured altar, and the pillar'd hall. 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams. 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson'd by its beams; 
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around. 
Swell from the victor's tents with ivy crown'd/ 
But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire. 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? 
She might be deem'd a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ! 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. 
The flames are gathering round — intensely bright, 
Full on her features glares their meteor-light 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there. 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate, 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate; 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound. 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round; 
Flush'd is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien, 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 

^ It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with 
ivy. 



WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 117 

Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry, 
Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest. 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ? 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain. 
And passion awfully vindictive, reign? 

Fix'd is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands, 
Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb. 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perish'd, fled the strife. 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
" Live, traitor, live ! " she cries, "since dear to thee. 
E'en in thy fetters, can existence be ! 
Scorn'd and dishonour'd live! — with blasted name, 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
O slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain, 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes ; 
Still may their voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair. 
Till vain remorse thy wither'd heart consume, 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 
E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their sire. 
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not? — 'Twas thine to fly — 
'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate ! the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams. 
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams; 



118 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

With frantic laugh she clasps them to her breast, 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, 
Then deep 'midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye. 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 



From Maccabees, book 2. chapter iii. 21. "Then it would 
have pitied a man to see the falling-down of the multitude of all 
sorts, and the fear of the high-priest, being in such an agony. — 
22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things 
committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed 
them. — 23. Nevertheless, Heliodorus executed that which was 
decreed. — 24. Now as he was there present himself with his 
guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of 
all Power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to 
come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and 
fainted, and were sore afraid. — 25. For there appeared unto them 
a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very 
fair covering, and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with 
his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had a 
complete harness of gold. — 26. Moreover, two other young men 
appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and 
comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged 
him continually, and gave him many sore stripes. — 27. And He- 
liodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with 
great darkness; but they that were with him took him up and 
put him into a litter. — 28. Thus him that lately came with great 
train, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried 
out being unable to help himself with his weapons, and mani- 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 119 

feslly they acknowledged the power of God. — 29. For he by the 
hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless, without all hope 
of life." 



A SOUND of woe in Salem! — mournful cries 

Rose from her dwellings — youthful cheeks were 
pale, 

Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 

Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer. 

And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendour of their fair array. 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride. 
And throng'd the streets in hurrying, wild dismay ; 

While knelt thy priests before his awful shrine, 

Who made, of old, renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves — the temple's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold. 

And all the scene reveals its solemn state. 

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold; 

And man, with eye unhallow'd, views th' abode. 

The sever'd spot, the dwelling-place of God. 

Where art thou. Mighty Presence ! that of yore 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veil'd in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest? 

Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 



120 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Angel of God ! that through th' Assyrian host, 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, 

To tame the proud, to hush th' invader's boast. 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, 

And death alone reveal'd w^here thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener ! in thy might. 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill. 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath stream'd the house of holiness to fill ? 

Oh ! yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal one ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer, undismayed. 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion, and the widow's store ; 

What recks his heart though age unsuccour'd die, 

And want consume the cheek of infancy ? 

Away, intruders! — hark! a mighty sound! 

Behold, a burst of light! — away, away! 
A fearful glory fills the temple round, 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame. 
His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame ! 

His neck is clothed with thunder^ — and his mane 
Seems waving fire — the kindling of his eye 



* « Hast thou given the horse strength f Hast thou clothed 
nis neck with thunder 3" — Job, chap, xxxix. v. 19. 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 121 

Is as a meteor — ardent with disdain 

His glance — his gesture, fierce in majesty! 
Instinct with Hght he seems, and formed to bear 
Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold. 

Throned on that burning charger ? bright his form. 
Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! 
Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand 
All-arm'd, and kingly in commanding grace — 

Oh! more than kingly — godlike! — ^^sternly grand 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given, 

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is bow*d 
In trembling awe — but, as to fields of fight, 

Th' unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd. 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might; 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness — thick darkness! — low on earth he lies. 
Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; 

And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train. 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 
Vol. IL 11 



122 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 

Have pass'd, with all their dreadful pomp, away ; 

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high 
Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; 

Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill ! 

Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



FROM SISMONDl's " REPUBLIQUES ITALIENNES." 

[" En meme temps que les Genois poursuivoient avec ardeur la 
guerre contre Pise, ils etoient dechires eux-memes par une dis- 
corde civile. Les consuls de I'annee 1169, pour retablir la paix 
dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes a leur voix et 
plus puissantes qu'eux, furent obliges d'ourdir en quelque sorte 
une conspiration. lis commencerent par s'assurer secretement 
des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant 
etoient entraines dans les emeutes par leur parente avec les chefs 
de faction; puis, se concertant avec le venerable vieillard, 
Hugues, leur archeveque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du 
soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parlement ; ils 
se flattoient que la surprise et I'alarme de cette convocation 
inattendue, au milieu de 1' obscurite de la nuit, rendroit I'assem- 
blee et plus complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant 
au parlement general, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le 
vieil archeveque, entoure de son clerge en habit de ceremonies, 
et portant des torches allumees, tandis que les reliques de Saint 
Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, etoient exposees devant 
lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient a leurs 
mains des croix suppliantes. Ees que I'assemblee fut formee, le 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 123 

vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassee il conjura les chefs de parti 
au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs ^mes, au nom 
de leur patrie et de la liberte, dont leurs discordes entraineroient 
la ruine, de jurer sur I'evangile I'oubli de leurs querelles, et la 
paix a venir. 

" Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avancerent aussitot 
vers Roland Avogado, le chef de I'une des factions, qui etoit pre- 
sent a I'assemblee, et, secondes par les acclamations de tout le 
peuple, et par les prieres de ses parens eux-memes, ils le som- 
merent de se conformer au vosu des consuls et de la nation. 

" Roland, a leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asseyant 
par terre en versant des larmes, il appela a haute voix les morts 
qu'il avoit jure de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de par- 
donner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le deter- 
miner a s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, I'archeveque et le 
clerge, s'approcherent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prieres, ils 
I'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur I'evangile I'oubli de 
ses inimities passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de 
Volta, n'etoient pas presens a I'assemblee, mais le peuple et le 
elerge se porterent en foule a ieurs maisons ; ils les trouverent 
deja ebranles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, profitant de 
leur emotion, ils leur firent jurer une reconciliation sincere, et 
donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposee. Alors 
les cloches de la ville sonnerent en temoignage d'allegresse, et 
I'archeveque de retour sur la place publique entonna un Te Deum 
avec tout le peuple, en honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve 

leur patrie." Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, vol. ii. 

pp. 149-50.] 



In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warnm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near : 
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate 
But slumber'd till its hour of fate. 



124 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, 
Sunk the wide city to repose. 

But when deep midnight reign'd around, 
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; 
Then mingled wdth th' awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
Arm, warriors, arm ! for danger calls. 
Arise to guard your native walls ! 
With breathless haste the gathering throng 
Hurry the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold counsels still convene. 
— But there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the night. 
O'er fane, and dome, and column playing 
With every fitful night- wind swaying, 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade. 
Around the pillar'd scene display'd. 
In light relieved by depth of shade : 
And now, with ruddy meteor-glare, 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands. 
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands; 
Girt with his consecrated train. 
The hallow'd servants of the fane. 
Of life's past woes, the fading trace 
Hath given that aged patriarch's face 



NIGHT- SCENE IN GENOA. 125 

Expression holy, deep, resigned. 

The calm sublimity of mind. 

Years o'er his snowy head have passed, 

And left him of his race the last; 

Alone on earth — yet still his mien 

Is bright with majesty serene ; 

And those high hopes, whose guiding-star 

Shines from th' eternal worlds afar. 

Have with that light illumed his eye, 

Whose fount is immortality. 

And o'er his features pour'd a ray 

Of glory, not to pass away. 

He seems a being who hath known 

Communion with his God alone. 

On earth by nought but pity's tie 

Detain'd a moment from on high ! 

One to sublimer worlds allied. 

One, from all passion puritied. 

E'en now half-mingled with the sky. 

And all prepared — oh! not to die — 

But, like the prophet, to aspire. 

In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 

He speaks — and from the throngs around 

Is heard not e'en a whisper'd sound; 

Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glance. 

They stand as in a spell-bound trance : 

He speaks — oh! who can hear, nor own 

The might of each prevailing tone? 

" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long 
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, 
11* 



126 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES, 

Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 
Hath made your country desolate; 
Now by th'S love ye bear her name. 
By that pure spark of holy flame 
On freedom's altar brightly burning, 
But, once extinguish'd, ne'er returning; 
By all your hopes of bliss to come 
When burst the bondage of the tomb : 
By Him, the God who bade us live 
To aid each other, and forgive — 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine. 
Each ancient feud in peace atone, 
Wield your keen swords for her alone, 
And swear upon the cross, to cast 
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past!" 

No voice replies — the holy bands 
Advance to where yon chieftain stands. 
With folded arms, and brow of gloom 
O'ershadow'd by his floating plume. 
To him they lift the cross — in vain 
He turns — oh! sav not with disdain, 
But with a mien of haughty grief. 
That seeks not, e'en from heaven, relief: 
He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 

" Father ! not thus the wounds may close 
Inflicted by eternal foes. 
Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface 
The dread volcano's burning trace ? 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 127 

Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 

Be, smiling, as it once hath been ? 

No! for the deeds the sword hath done 

Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 

The words, by hatred spoke, may not 

Be, as a summer breeze, forgot ! 

'Tis vain — we deem the war-feud's rage 

A portion of our heritage. 

Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, 

Bequeath'd us that undying flame ; 

Hearts that have long been still and cold 

Yet rule us from their silent mould ; 

And voices, heard on earth no more, 

Speak to our spirits as of yore. 

Talk not of mercy — blood alone 

The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 

Nought else can pay that mighty debt. 

The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses — from the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now; 
His reverend form, his aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command. 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Fill'd with prophetic majesty. 

"The dead! — and deem'st thou they retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ? 
Of guilt incurr'd in days gone by. 
Aught but the fearful penalty ? 
And say'st thou, mortal ! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone? 



128 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

There hath been blood — by Him 'twas shed 

To expiate every crime who bled; 

Th' absolving God who died to save. 

And rose in victory from the grave ! 

And by that stainless offering given 

Alike for all on earth to heaven ; 

By that inevitable hour 

When death shall vanquish pride and power. 

And each departing passion's force 

Concentrate all in late remorse ; 

And by the day when doom shall be 

Pass'd on earth's millions, and on thee — 

The doom that shall not be repeal'd. 

Once utter'd, and for ever seal'd — 

I summon thee, O child of clay ! 

To cast thy darker thoughts away, 

And meet thy foes in peace and love. 

As thou would'st join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing; 
Oh ! not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise ; 
He yields — devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence, 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skies. 
Each evil passion's sacrifice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing; 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 129 

Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, 
And ardent throngs in transport meeting : 
And eager footsteps forward pressing, 
And accents loud in joyous blessing ; 
And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace ! " 

Twilight's dim mist hath rolPd away. 
And the rich Orient burns with day : 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth. 
Rises the choral hymn of earth ; 
Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling. 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 

Ear float the sounds o'er vale and steep, 
The seaman hears them on the deep, 
So mellow'd by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream : 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone ; 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy, to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR, 

AND 

RICHARD C(EUR DE LION. 



" Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when thrown 
into prison by the Duke of Austria,) " if we believe the literary 
history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, 
was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies : and both 
might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment 
of a Provencal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared 
that prince's friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled 
over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved 
patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle 
in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and 
guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse 
that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired 
to the place ; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, 
and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality 
of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought 
himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He 
chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been 
composed partly by himself, partly by Richard ; and to his 
unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and 
continued by the royal captive. — (Hist. Troubadours.) To this 
discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed 
his release." See Russell's Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 



The Troubadour o'er many a plain 
Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain: 

(130) 



THE TROUBADOUR. 131 

O'er many a rugged mountain-scene, 

And forest-wild, his track hath been; 

Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 

He hath sung the songs of chivalry ; 

His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine breeze, 

And rung through the snowy Pyrenees: 

From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave. 

He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave. 

And yet, if still on earth thou art. 

Oh, monarch of the lion-heart ! 

The faithful spirit, which distress 

But heightens to devotedness. 

By toil and trial vanquish'd not. 

Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 

He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine. 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine : 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state — 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate (1) 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest. 
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile. 
That 'midst bright sunshine lowers on high, 
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of song 
Awhile may speed the hours along; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan 



132 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

Or the wild huntsman's bugle blast, 

When his phantom-train are hurrying past. (2) 

The weary minstrel paused — his eye 

Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 

Within the length'ning shadow, cast 

By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, 

Lingering he gazed — the rocks around 

Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd ; 

Proud guardians of the regal flood. 

In giant strength the mountains stood; 

By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, 

Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. 

Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 

But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below; 

In purple tints the vineyards smiled. 

But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 

Nor pastoral pipe, nor convent's bell, 

Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell ; 

But all was lonely, silent, rude, 

A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The Troubadour's wild song is waking. 
Full oft that song, in days gone by, 
Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry; 
It hath swell'd o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learn'd its tone ; 
On the Great Plain (3) its notes have rung. 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among; 
'Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 133 



THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The Soldan cried to the captive knight, 

" And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy Hps profess'd, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine. 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, 

And Ufe shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood. 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, 

And think'st thou I fear to die ? 

" I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers. 

Have fall'n for the name divine ; 
And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health. 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ? 

Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth. 
Or torture and the tomb." 

" I have been where the crown of thorns was twined 

For a dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now ! " 

Vol. n. 12 



134 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

" Art thou the son of a noble Hne 

In a land that is fair and blest ? 
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine, 

Again on its shores to rest ? 

* Thine own is the choice to hail once more 

The soil of thy father's birth, 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er. 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies. 

There 's a brighter clime above ! " 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

" Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian ! left to deplore thy fall. 

With sorrow deep and vain 1 " 

" There are hearts that still, through all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier 

Than th' apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved when here, 

Shall meet to love again," 



THE TROUBADOUR. 135 

'Tis he! thy prince — long sought, long lost, 
The leader of the red-cross host ! 
*Tis he! — to none thy joy betray. 
Young Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave ; (4) 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil. 
To win their Lion from the toil ; 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow. 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; 
The festal board shall be richly crown'd. 
While knights and chieftains revel round. 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring. 
When merry England hails her king. 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

No helmet hangs o^er the massy gate. 
It was a custom in feudal times to hang" out a helmet on a 
castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and par- 
take of hospitality. So in the romance of " Perceforest," " ils 
fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un heaulme, en signe 
que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardi- 
ment en leur hostel comme en leur propre." 

Note 2. 

Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, 
When his phantom-train are hurrying past. 
Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the 
haunt of the wild Jdger, or supernatural huntsman — the super- 



136 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

stitious tales relating- to the Unterberor are recorded in Eustace's 
Classical Tour ; and it is still believed in the romantic district 
of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his 
ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the 
air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. 

See the ^^ Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin,''^ and 

" Autumn on the Rhine.'''' 



Note 3. 

On the Great Plain its notes have rung. 

The Plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the " Great 
Plain;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the "Jfield of Megiddo," the 
" Galilsean Plain." This plain, the most fertile part of all the 
land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest 
in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman 
empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a 
chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this 
country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, 
until the disastrous march of Bonaparte from Egypt into Syria. 
Warriors out of " every nation which is under heaven" have 
pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdraelon, and have beheld 
the various banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon 
and Thabor. Dr. Clarke's Travels. 

Note 4. 

The gem on the bosom of the wave. 

" This precious stone set in the silver sea." 

Richard II. 



THE 

DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



FROM SISMONDl's " REPUBLIQTJES ITALIENNES." 

" La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni a ses 
malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d'Anjou). L'amour 
du peuple pour I'heritier legitime du trone, avoit eclate d'une 
maniere eifrayante ; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles revolutions, 
si Conradin demeuroit en vie ; et Charles, revetant sa defiance 
et sa cruaute des formes de la justice, resolut de faire perir sur 
I'echafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, I'unique 
esperance de son parti. Un seul juge provencal et sujet de 
Charles, dont les historiens n'ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa 
voter pour la mort, d'autres se renfermerent dans un timide et 
coupable silence ; et Charles, sur I'autorite de ce seul juge, fit 
prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sen- 
tence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette 
sentence fut communiquee a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux 
echecs ; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer a son exe- 
cution, et le 26 d'Octobre, il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur 
la Place du Marche de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. 
Charles etoit present, avec toute sa cour, et une fouie immense 
entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamne. Conradin etoit 
entre les mains des bourreaux ; il detacha lui-meme son manteau, 
et s'etant mis a genoux pour prier, il se releva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, 
ma mere, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on 
va te porter de moi !' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui 
I'entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peu- 
ple ; alors, detachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce 
gage d'un combat de vengeance, et rend it sa lete au bourreaii. 
Apres lui, sur le meme echafaud, Charles fit trancher la tete au 
Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, 
12 * (i""^') 



138 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un 
rafinement de cruaute, Charles voulut que le premier, ills du 
second, precedat son pere, et mourut entre ses bras. Les 
cadavres, d'apres ses ordres, furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et 
inhumes sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II., cepen- 
dant fit dans la suite, b^tir sur le meme lieu une eglise de Car- 
melites, comme pour appaiser ces ombres irritees." 



No cloud to dim the splendour of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charm'd the great of yore; 
Th' imperial ones of earth — who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en Ocean's realm invade. 

That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away. 

The beam of Heaven expands — its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle. 
Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest. 
With all its rocks and vines, on Ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray. 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height. 
With all Ttalia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 139 

While, far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrow'd and dark with many a lava streak. 

Oh, ye hright shores of Circe and the Muse! 
Rich with all Nature's and all fiction's hues; 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet err'd to paint Elysium there? 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! hid him guide 
Thy steps, those siren-haunted seas heside; 
And all the scene a lovelier hght shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, (1) 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground: 
His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves; 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witness'd many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. (2) 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral- wail. 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. (3) 
And there of old the dread mysterious moan 
Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone; 



140 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard, at midnight, o'er the hills to float 
Around the spot where Agrippina died. 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. (4) 

Pass'd are those ages — yet another crime. 
Another woe, must stain th' Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp array 'd, — 
A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. 
Mark'd ye the rushing throngs? — each mien is pale. 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale ; 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast. 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppressed; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Proven(jals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, (5) 
And in his eye a keen sixspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
Behold the conqueror! — vainly in his face, 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace : 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament ; 
And pleading Mercy, in the sternness there. 
May read at once her sentence — to despair. 

But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave. 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 141 

While all is yet around thee which can give 

A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; 

Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 

Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 

Hath grown too full for utterance — Can it be? 

And is this pomp of death prepared for thee ? 

Young, royal Conradin ! who shouldst have known 

Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 

Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 

Of youth, array'd so richly for the tomb, 

Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 

Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 

Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, 

Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth can 

shed. 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng. 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound. 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave. 
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate : the eyes are dim 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. 
He mounts the scaffold — doth his footstep fail? 
Doth his lip quiver ? doth his cheek turn pale ? 
Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught. 



142 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed! 
If, in his life's young dayspring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath. 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow — that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man — his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone 1 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan, 
May speak of hope — when hope on earth is gone? 

That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven : 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky. 
Life all around him glows — and he must die 1 
Yet 'midst his people, undismay'd, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; 
Vengeance, that, like their own volcano's fire. 
May sleep suppress'd a while — but not expire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast. 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair. 
When thy last child is gone?" — that thought can 

thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 143 

The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 

It falls — the race of Conradin is run! 

Yetf from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 

A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 

Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne. 

In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 

Charles of Anjou ! but that dread voice shall be 

A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes. 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
O, vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by Ocean's wave ; 
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonour'd, unadorn'd — but unforgot ; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away — 
A bark hath anchor'd in th' unruffled bay; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, (6) 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek. 
And her soft eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak. 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sunk not feebly 'neath affliction's blast. 
While one bright hope remain'd — who now shall tell 
Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one fell? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save. 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave! 



144 TALES, AND HISTORIC SCENES. 

And hj that grave, transfixed in speechless grief. 

Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief. 

Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know. 

To feel the might, the fulness of her woe. 

On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 

A mother's cry is heard — " My Conradin ! my child . '' 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn. 

The urn, supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil, has 
long since been lost. 

Note 2. 

The sighs of exiles, never to return. 

Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some 
of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. 
Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the 
isle of Pandataria, and her daughter, Agrippina, the widow of 
Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. 

Note 3, 
That glowing land was hut their sepulchre. 

"Quelques souvenirs du cceur, quelques noms de femraes, 
reclaraent aussi vos pleurs. C'est a Misene, dans le lieu meme 
ou nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompee, Cornelie, conserva 
jusqu'a la mort son noble deuil ; Agrippine pleura long- temps 
Germanicus sur ces bords. Un jour, le meme assassin qui lui 
ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut 
temoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie." — Madame de Stael 
— Corinne. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 145 

Note 4. 

Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 

The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime, had 
been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors ; besides, 
there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks und 
cries from Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets 
from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying 

from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples. See Ancient 

Universal History. 

Note 5. 

Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene. 

" Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, " fut sage et prudent dans 
les conseils, preux dans les armes, apre et forte redoute de tons 
les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensees qui I'egaloient 
aux plus grandes enterprises ; inebranlable dans I'adversite, ferme 
et fidele dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beau- 
coup, ne riant j)resque jamais, decent comme un religieux, zele 
catholique, dpre a rendre justice, feroce dans ses regards. Sa 
taille etoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivatre, son nez fort 
grand. II paroissoit plus fait qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la 
majeste royale. II ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit 
de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour."— — 
SiSMONDi, Republiques Italiennes, vol. iii. 

Note 6. 
Thence on the beach descends a female form. 

" The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe 
of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butch- 
ered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart 
yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep dis- 
tress of Conradin's mother, who, landing on the beach with her 
son's ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs 

of his barbarous conqueror." Swinburne's Travels in the 

Two Sicilies. 

Vol. II. 1.3 



THE 



RESTORATION 



OF THE 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY: 



Italia, Italia! O tu cui feo la Sorte 
Dono infelice di bellezza, onde hai 
Funesta dete d' infiniti guai, 
Che'n fronte scritti per gran doglia porte; 

Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte. 

Filicaja. 



(147) 



" But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste 
transitory. The French, who in every invasion have been the 
scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapa- 
city of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on 
the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces 
from their pedestals, and dragging them from their temples of 
marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull 

sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvrey Eustace's 

Classical Tour through Italy , vol. ii. p. 60. 

(148) 



RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART 
TO ITALY. 



Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains; 
Whose hallow'd soil hath giA^en the great and brave, 
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave ; 
Home of the arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day; 
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 't is thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades. 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom; 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave. 
Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high. 
Those magic chains of love and chivalry; 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel grove ; 

13* " (149) 



150 RESTORATION OF THE 

Oh ! rouse once more the darmg soul of song. 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, 
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd. 

And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior- 
might. 
Each danger stemm'd, prevailed in every fight; 
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured. 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 
Whose banners track'd the vanquished Eagle's flight 
O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height ; 
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay 
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow. 
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe; 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales. 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales. 
And 'mid those scenes renew'd th' achievements high, 
Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past, 
One strife remain'd — the mightiest and the last ! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour. 
Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power : 
Vengeance and Pride, to phrenzy roused, were there. 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood. 
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone, 
Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 151 

Oh hearts devoted ! whose ilkistrious doom 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb. 
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; 
Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust. 
Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, 
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown, 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown. 
There shall the bard in future ages tread. 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead; 
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave : 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear 
In every breeze, some name to glory dear, 
And as the shades of twilight close around. 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain 
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane, 
While as they trace each spot, whose records teli 
Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, 
Warm in their souls, shall loftiest feelings glow. 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair, 
To learn the hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame. 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 



152 RESTORATION OF THE 

Land of the lyre! 'twas there the avenging sword 

Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; 

Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw 

A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, 

And bid the stranger for a while forget 

How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes ! fair creations, to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced. 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ; 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown. 
Live in the spheres encircling Glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, 
Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendour to your native shore, 
And her sad scenes of lost renown ihume. 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

Oh ! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms in beaming ecstasy ; 
JVe'er was it yours . to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand. 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
W^here 'mid the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends. 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes ! in those scenes, where every ancient stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 153 

Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell, 
From each wild olive-wood and Alpine dell ; 
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains, 
'Mid prostrate altars, and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes in each lonely spot. 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
There was your home, and there your power imprest 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies. 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose. 
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! Queen of Arno's lovely vale ! 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale. 
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour. 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced. 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste. 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Reveal'd where conquest's lawless track had been; 
Reft of each form with brighter life imbued, 
Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er. 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one, who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay. 
With transport heighten'd by those ills of night. 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 



154 RESTORATION OF THE 

E'en thus awakening from thy dreams of woe. 
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thee glow. 
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each hne of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, since de- 
plored 
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored. 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead. 

Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of art's exhaustless mine. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam. 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream. 
And forms august as natives of the sky. 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty. 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye, at whose voice fair Art with eagle glance. 
Burst in full splendour from her death-like trance ; 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break ; 
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose. 
And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose ; 
And bade its pealing energies resound. 
With power electric, through the realms around; 
Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more. 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore! 
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze. 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days: 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 155 

Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined. 
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around. 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground. 
And from the stone, by inspiration wrought. 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There, thou fair offspring of immortal mind ! 
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
Oh ! who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight. 
How many a glimpse reveal'd to him alone. 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own : 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye 
On forms, instinct with bright divinity. 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart. 
Embrace the full magnificence of art ; 
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand array'd; 
From dreams of heaven, by Angelo portray'd; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
Seal'd with perfection, " sanctified by time ;" : 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal, 
Buoyant with loftier hopes his soul shall rise, 
Imbued, at once, with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar, 
And worlds of visionary grace explore, 



156 RESTORATION OF THE 

Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams birth, 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Venice, exult ! and o'er thy moonlit seas, 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial fame, 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name, 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, 
And the wild waves another Q,ueen obey; 
Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race. 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace; 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast. 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, 
Whose clear, soft brilliance emulates the skies, 
And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom, 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again the unrivall'd steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed. 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame. 
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought. 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught. 
No mortal birth ye seem — but form'd to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of air ; 
To range uncurb 'd the pathless fields of space. 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet. 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot star fleet; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray. 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! wing'd with light, 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 157 

From purer elements wliose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offipring of the dawn, 
What years on years, in silence gliding by. 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne. 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow'd. 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream. 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave; 
How many a state, whose pillar'd strength sublime 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone. 
Fortress of power — has flourish'd and is gone! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne. 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn. 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won. 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, 
Consummate still in every grace remain. 
As o'er their heads had ages roll'd in vain ! 
Ages, victorious, in their ceaseless flight. 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain. 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island throne. 
And call'd th' infinitude of waves her own ; 
Venice the proud, the regent of the sea. 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume unfurl'd. 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, 
Vol, n. 14 



158 RESTORATION OF THE 

Eternal city ! round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; 
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time, 
Immortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, 
Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song; 
Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head. 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead. 
And once again, with fond delight, survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, oh Rome ! a god-like train, 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust, 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul. 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance. 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance. 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes. 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names. 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
Oh ! with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
Patriots and heroes ! could those flames return. 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardour burn, 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 
Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur burst ! 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom. 
With one loud call wake Enipire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread iEgis with majestic frown, 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 159 

Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight, 
To bathe its plumage in the fount of Hght. 

Vain dream ! degraded Rome ! thy noon is e'er, 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days. 
Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze; 
Those, blest to live, w^hile yet thy star was high, 
More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die ! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers. 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 
Oh ! what can realms, in fame's full zenith, boast. 
To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill. 
Genius and taste shall love to wander still. 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom. 
And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb ; 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free. 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, 
Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine. 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire. 
Once more thine ow^n, th' immortal Archer's form 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm, 
Oh ! who could view-, nor deem that perfect frame, 
A living temple of ethereal flame ? 



160 RESTORATION OF THE 

Lord of the day -star ! how may words portray 

Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray? 

Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, 

Of regal dignity, and heavenly grace ; 

Each purer effluence of the fair and hright. 

Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight ; 

Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky, 

To vest th' embodied form of deity ; 

All, all in thee ennobled and refined. 

Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined ! 

Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 

Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy throne; 

And days unborn, and nations yet to be. 

Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck, (1) e'en yet sublime, 
Disputed trophy, claim'd by Art and Time, 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervours of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired one, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assign'd ; 
W^ho from the past, the future and th' unseen. 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien ; 
Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze. 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair ? 
Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurl'd, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hand defaced 
The work of wonder, idolized by taste ? 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode. 
Mould of a conqueror ! (2) ruin of a God ! 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 161 

Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
*Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense 
From every part, some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows. 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; 
Fill'd with immortal life, each muscle swells. 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last, 
Of Grecian Freedom, (3) ere her reign was past : 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still. 
Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill. 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A Hero's image to the world bequeathed : 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, 
And bade thee teach, to nations yet unborn. 
What lofty dreams were hers — w^ho never shall re- 
turn ! 

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a throe, 

Seal'd with the image of eternal w^oe : 

With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest. 

Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast, 

And the stern combat picture to mankind. 

Of suffering nature, and enduring mind. 

Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense 

Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense ; 

Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes 

Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 

Though, with the giant-snake in fruitless strife 

Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
14* 



162 RESTORATION OF THE 

And in each limb Existence writhes, enroll'd 
'Mid the dread circles of the venom'd fold; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony ! 
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry heaven appeals, 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath. 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death ! (4) 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart. 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays : 
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes. 
More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies ; 
Or dreams of bliss, to dying martyrs given. 
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh ! sovereign Masters of the pencil's might. 
Its depth of shadov/, and its blaze of light, 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound. 
Explored the worlds above, below, around. 
Children of Italy ! who stand alone. 
And unapproach'd, 'midst regions all your own; 
What scenes, what beings, blest your favour'd sight. 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity^ 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 163 

And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd. 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendour 
shed, 
As burst on Prophet-bards in agea fled: 
Forms that to trace, no hand but yours might dare 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair ; 
These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd. 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, 
And breathe and move, the records of your power. 
Inspired of Heaven ! what heighten'd pomp ye cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome, 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome : 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve ; 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chasten'd warmth, and Beauty's mellowest glow, 
And when the morn's bright beams and mantling dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies. 
Or evening suns illume, with purple smile. 
The Parian altar, and the pillar'd aisle. 
Then, as the full, or soften'd radiance falls. 
On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls. 
Well may those Temples, where your hand has shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, 
That naught of earth should find admittance there. 
Some sphere, where Beings, to mankind unknown. 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! 



164 RESTORATION OF THE 

Hence, ye vain fictions, fancy's erring theme, 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time. 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. 
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ! 
That realm where first the light of life was sent, 
The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray, 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way ; 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's (5) deep, 
Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 
Scenes whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell 
Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! 
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, 
Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd. 
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
Breathed ' still small ' whispers on the midnight gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portray 'd 
'Mid the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, 
Ethereal forms, with awful missions fraught. 
Or Patriarch-seers, absorb 'd in sacred thought. 
Bards, in high converse with the world at rest, 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the conqueror of the grave. 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul return'd to animate the dead ; 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 165 

Whom the waves own'd — and sunk beneath his eye, 
Awed by one accent of divinity; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours, 
Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. 
O'er her bright scenes subhme repose she threw. 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh ! mark, where Raphael's pure and perfect line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! (6) 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head ; 
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fulness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpower'd by th' excess of light ! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess. 
Of all her powers a heighten'd consciousness. 
And strong in hope, anticipate the day. 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray ; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere. 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold, reflection from her native sky. 
Faint effluence of "'the Day-spring from on high!" 



166 RESTORATION OF THE 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, 
and of many other distinguished artists. 

Note 2. 

"Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait ete maltraitee et mutilee 
d'une maniere etrange, se trouvaiit sans tete, sans bras, et sans 
jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef-d'oeuvre aux yeux dcs 
connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mysteres de I'art, 
se la representent dans toute sa beaute. L'artiste, en voulant 
representer Hercule, a forme un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature. 
* * * Cet Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il dut etre, lorsque, 
purifie par le feu des foiblesses de I'humanite, il ob'cint Timmor- 
talite, et pris place aupres des dieux. II est represenle sans 
aucun besoin de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les veines 
y sont toutes invisibles." — Winckelmann, Histoire de VArt chez 
les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 248. 

Note 3. 

" Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des derniers ouvrages parfaits 
que I'art ait produit en Grece, avant la perte de sa liberte. Car 
apres que la Grece fut reduite en province Romaine, I'histoire ne 
fait mention d'aucun artiste celebre de cette nation, jusqu'aux 
temps du Triumvirat Roinain." — Winckelmann, ibid. tom. ii. 
p. 250. 

Note 4. 

" It is not, in the same manner, in the agonized limbs, or in the 
convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its 
composition resides ; it is in the majestic air of the head, which 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 167 

has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the fore- 
head, which seems to be still superior to all its afflictions, and 
significant of a mind that cannot be subdued." — Allison's Essays, 
vol. ii. p. 400. 

" Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la 
plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous I'iinage 
d'homme qui tache de rassembler centre elle toute la force de 
I'esprit. Tandis que I'exces de la souffrance enfie les muscles, et 
tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front 
gonfle : la poitrine s'eleve avec peine par la necessite de la respi- 
ration, qui est egalement contrainte par le silence que la force de 
I'ame impose a la douleur qu'elle voudrait etouffer. * * * Son 
air est plaintif, et non criard." — Winckehnann, ibid. torn, ii, p. 214. 

Note 5. 
Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. 

Note 6. 

The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, 
that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the 
grave. 



MODERN GREECE. 



Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, 
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, 
In these hast led the way, in these excell'd, 
Crown'd with the laurel of assenting Time. 

Thomson's Liberty. 



(169) 

Vol. 11. 15 



MODERN GREECE. 



1. 

O ! WHO hath trod thy consecrated clime, 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains ! 
And traced each scene, that, 'midst the wrecks of 

time. 
The print of Glory's parting step retains; 
Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot, 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there, 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot. 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; 
As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath track'd the blue infinity? 

II. 

Is there who views with cold unalter'd mien, 
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught. 
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene. 
Where Freedom triumph'd, or where Wisdom 

taught ? 
Souls that too deeply feel, oh, envy not 
The sullen calm vour fate hath never known: 
Through the dull twilight of that wint'ry lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam shone. 
Nor those high thoughts, that, hailing Glory's trace, 
Glow with the generous flames of every age and race, 

(171) 



172 MODERN GREECE. 

III. 

But blesl the wanderer, whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore ; and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude ; 
Pour'd on his ear, 'midst groves and glens retired, 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime. 
All that hath lived, while empires have expired, 
To float for ever on the winds of Time ; 
And on his soul indelibly portray'd 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 

IV. 

Is not his mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light ? 
There he may dwell in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright, 
For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veil'd from other eyes; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain-dell. 
From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo's 
swell. 

V. 

For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 

The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat-plains. 

And the wild rose yet lives to breathe and bloom 

Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes. (1) 

But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 

He feels the fervours of his spirit rise ; 



MODERN GREECE. 173 

Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice of yore 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast, 
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost. 

VI. 

By seas, that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast rapt in thought may stray. 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave. 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
-^ O ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore 
The free, the conquering, hymn'd by choral strains. 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore, 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains! 
How are the mighty vanish'd in their pride 1 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. 

VII. 

Hush'd are the Paeans whose exulting tone 
Swell'd o'er that tide (2) — the sons of battle sleep — 
The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 

hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse 
With all their purple mellowness of light, 
O ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty, were 

there 1 
15* 



174 MODERN GREECE. 



VIII. 



Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 
'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh; 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow, 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky; 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead. 
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile. 
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile; 
And mantling woodbine veil the wither'd tree, — 
And thus it is, fair land ! forsaken Greece, with thee. 

IX. 

For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom. 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm. 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb. 
The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm: — 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath pass'd 
So dazzling in the splendour of its way, 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hath been unmatch'd — in glory and despair 

For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath flow'd 
The high in soul have brightly lived and died; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glow'd 
O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified. 



MODERN GREECE. 175 

Thine were the minds, whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning-race, 
The task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 
— Now, bow'd to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee. 

XI. 

Lo! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales. 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies, (3) 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest? — Alas! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm. 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain. 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
Where patriarchs reign'd of old, in pastoral repose. 

XII. 

Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, 
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave. 
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves. 
Wears but two forms — the tyrant and the slave ! 
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde. 
Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning wild; 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword 
O'er plains that smile, as ancient Eden smiled; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom. 
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 



? 



176 MODERN GREECE. 

XIII. 

But thou, fair world ! whose fresh unsullied charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, (4) 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast. 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath 
been. 

XIV. 

There, by some lake, whose blue expansive breast 
Bright from afar, an inland-ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress'd 
In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams; 
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours 
Its m.ight of waters, glittering in their foam, 
'Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores. 
The exiled Greek hath fix'd his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman's 
feet. 

XV. 

The forests are around him in their pride, 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves; 
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide, (5) 
, That images the fairy worlds it laves. 



MODERN GREECE. 177 

And stillness, and luxuriance — o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread. 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers. 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture's temple moans. 

XVI. 

And there, no traces left by brighter days, 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief, 
Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze. 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 
There man not yet hath mark'd the boundless plain 
With marble records of his fame and power; 
The forest is his everlasting fane. 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower. 
Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree. 
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. 

XVII. 

But doth the exile's heart serenely there 

In sunshine dwell? — Ah! when was exile blest? 

When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer 

air. 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ? 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood. 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, 
And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. 
That coldly smiles 'midst pleasure's brightest ray, 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 



178 MODERN GREECE. 

XVIII. 

Such grief is theirs, who, fix'd on foreign shore, 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales, 
As pines the seaman, 'midst the ocean's roar. 
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. 
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with 

thee. 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art . 
Though thought and step in western wilds be free, 
Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart : 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam. 
Thou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's home. 

XIX. 

In vain for him the gay liannes entwine. 
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes. 
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine. 
As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while. 
Or breathes the freshness of Cithaeron's height. 
Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would smile, 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light; 
On Corinth's cliiF what sunset hues may sleep, 
)r, at that placid hour, how calm th' Egean deep ! 

XX. 

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine ? 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) 
E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine 
Soft as a vision of remember'd joy. 



MODERN GREECE. 179 

And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay. 
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still ; 
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. 

XXI. 

Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 
That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine. 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Amidst the tombs of heroes — for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, 
Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeem'd and hallow'd by their toil ; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale. 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 
yet their tale. 

XXII. 

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, 
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days. 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 
With proud remembrances that cannot die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And, 'midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears 
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanished 
years. 



180 MODERN GREECE. 

XXIII. 

Through that deep soHtude be his to stray. 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past, 
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast 
Romantic Temple! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time : (6) 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic name, (7) 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves. 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers. 
Where the rich arbute's coral-berries glow, (8) 
Or, 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow. 
Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, 
As rock and stream some glancing light have caught. 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale. 
That breeze, and wave, and wood, seem whispering 
through thy dale. 

XXV. 

He, thought-entranced, may wander w^here of old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose, 
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold 
By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and snows. 



i 



MODERN GREECE. 181 

Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust. 
And silence now the hallow'd haunt possess, 
Still is the scene of ancient rites august, 
Magnificent in mountain loneliness; 
Still Inspiration hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held, (9) her Pythian 
victors crown'd. 

XXVI. 

Or let his steps the rude grey cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood. 
When by the waves that break on CEta's shore. 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead, (10) 
Or lone Plataea's ruins yet remain. 
To mark the battle-field of ages fled ; 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, grot, 
and bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh ! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem. 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell 
Where mortal worth has hallow'd grove or stream 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell ; 
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control. 
In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh. 
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul 
And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! 
And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel. 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal '? 
Vol. II. 16 



182 MODERN GREECE. 

XXVIII. 

Yet many a sad reality is there, 

That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil. 

Pure laughs the Hght, and balmy breathes the air. 

But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; 

And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws 

Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene, 

Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 

That follows where the earthquake's track hath 

been ; 
Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hush'd the 

seaman's cries, 

XXIX. 

Hast thou beheld some sov'reign spirit, hurl'd 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doom'd to resign the homage of a world. 
For Pity's deepest sigh, and saddest tear? 
Oh ! hast thou watch'd the awful wreck of mind, 
That weareth still a glory in deca}?^ ? 
Seen all that dazzles and deliarhts mankind — 
Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey, 
And o'er the blasted tree, the wither'd ground, 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish 
round ? 

XXX. 

So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought. 
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : 
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought. 
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime ; 



MODERN GREECE. 1S3 

There the proud monuments of Valour's name, 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high, 
The rich remains by Art bequeath'd to Fame — 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry, 
Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish'd 
there ! 

XXXI. 

There, while around lie mingling in the dust, 
7'he column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'ergrown. 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust. 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone; 
Amidst the loneliness of shatter'd fanes, 
Still matchless monuments of other years. 
O'er cypress groves, or solitary plains. 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears ; 
As on some captive city's ruin'd wall 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall. 

XXXII. 

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, 
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres, 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 
Spreads the chill blight — as in that orient isle. 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around, (11) 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile. 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 



184 MODERN GREECE. 

XXXIII. 

Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light 
O'er conquer'd realms, in ages pass'd away ; 
Full and alone it beam'd; intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhamhra, with its founts and shades, 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bovvers: 
Its sculptured lions, (12) richly wrought arcades. 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; 
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes, that fleet before the gale. 

XXXIV. 

Then foster'd genius lent each caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 
And stars unnumber'd o'er the orient shone. 
Bright as that Pleiad, sphered in Mecca's fane. (13) 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound, 
And Science, woo'd on Egypt's burning plains, 
Rear'd her majestic head with glory crown'd ; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore, 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 

XXXV. 

Those years have pa.st in radiance — they have past, 
As sinks the day-star in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no soft reflection cast. 
They burn — are quench'd — and deepest shadows 
reign. 



MODERN GREECE. 185 

And Fame and Science have not left a trace 
In the vast regions of the Moslem's pov^^er, — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower. 
Where towers Oppression 'midst the deepening 
glooms, 
As dark and lone ascends the cypress 'midst the tombs. 

XXXVI. 
Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia pour'd 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall, 
When Europe sheath'd, in apathy, her sword. 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne; 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine ! (14) 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 
Oh ! blest to die in freedom, though in vain. 
Thine Empire's proud exchange the grave, and not 
the chain. 

XXXVII. 

Hush'd is Byzantium — 'tis the dead of night — 
The closing night of that imperial race ! (15) 
And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 
There is a murmuring stillness on the train. 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane. 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise, 
There kneels the high-soul'd prince, the summon'd 
of the skies. 
16* 



186 MODERN GREECE. 

XXXVIII. 

Day breaks in light and glory — 'tis the hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war-note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the ranripart walls. 
Far o'er Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel. 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float; 
From camp and wave rush on the crescent's host, 
And the Seven Towers (16) are scaled, and all is 
won and lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then, Greece ! the tempest rose that burst on thee. 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
Oh ! where were then thy sons, the great, the free. 
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age ? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows. 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride. 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortress rose. 
On, unresisted, roll'd th' invading tide ! 
Oh ! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower. 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's unconquer'd 
power. 

XL. 

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane, (17) 
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's height. 
In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's train? 



MODERN GREECE. 187 

Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake. 
Call the dread storms to darken round their towers, 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break ; 
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang. 
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang. 

XLI. 

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song. 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified? 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lavs. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose (18) 
All arm'd; and beaming on the Athenian's gaze, 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes? 
Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck eye, (19) 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed, in airy panoply? 

XLII. 

Ye slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth ! (20) 
High demigods of ancient days ! ye slept. 
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept ; 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led. 
In mountain pass devotedly to die ; 
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled. 
And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy; 
Ajid by your graves, and on your battle-plains. 
Warriors ! your children knelt, to wear the stranger's 
chains. 



188 MODERN GREECE. 



XLIII. 



Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes 
Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce remain 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, 
The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar. 
The halls that echo'd to their sounds are gone, 
Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war ; (21) 
And if a mossy stone your names retain, 
'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. 

XLIV. 

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands. 
That with those names tradition hallows vet. 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hush'd regret. 
And still have legends mark'd the lonely spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies ; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot. 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again. 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw youi 
glory's reign. 

XLV. 

Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains : 



MODERN GREECE. 189 

Oh ! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, 
And many a chief of old illustrious line. 
Yield not one spirit of unconquer'd worth 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine ? 
No ! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, 
And terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaints 
were death. 

XLVI. 

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime. 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair, 
And wall'd with mountains, haughtily sublime. 
Heights, that might well be deem'd the Muses' 

reign. 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies. 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain; 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where nought of earth may e'er intrude. 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 

XLvn. 

There, in rude grandeur, daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowning o'er vales, in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride. 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers. 
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers; 



190 MODERN GREECE. 

Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, 
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 

XLVIII. 

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot- would 

roam ; 
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain-flood. 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry, 
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood. 
There is a voice of stern sublimity. 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanish'd long, her step hath fled afar; 
O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused a while, (22) 
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war ; 
And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there. 
Still brightest 'midst privation : o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendour, and despair 
But fann'd that beacon of the wdlderness ; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell. 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to 
swell. 



MODERN GREECE. 191 

L. 

Dark children of the hills! 'twas then ye wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand; 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought, 
And women mingled with your warrior band. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood (23) 
High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave. 
And hurl'd, in dread delirium, to the flood 
Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild indignant death of savage liberty. 

LI. 

Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days. 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 
And the dread struggle's fearful memory still 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill. 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 

LIL 

For stillness now — the stillness of the dead, 
Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene. 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread. 
Tell where the storming of the clifls hath been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude. 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued. 
Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again: 



192 MODERN GREECE. 

Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, 
The children of her sons inherit but their name. 

LIII. 

Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes! 
In scatter'd fragments o'er the vale they lie ; 
Of all they were not e'en enough remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty. (24) 
Birth-place of those whose names we first revered 
In song and story — temple of the free! 
O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee? 
Thou shouldst have left a giant-wreck behind. 
And e'en in ruin claim'd the wonder of mankind. 

LIV. 

For thine were spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test; 
They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the bold. 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind. 
One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race. 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace. 
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear 
the flower. 

LV. 

Such were thy sons — their life a battle-day! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die! 
Closed is that task, and they have pass'd away 
Like softer beings train'd to aims less high. 



MODERN GREECE. 193 

Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy cause. 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws ! (25) 
O lofty mother of heroic worth. 
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner ofispring 

forth? 

LVI. 
Hadst thou but perish'd with the free, nor known 
A second race, w^hen Glory's noon went by. 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watchword on the helm of liberty! 
Thou shouldst have pass'd with all the light of 

fame. 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. 
But slowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame. 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves 
Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy 

slaves. 

LVII. 
Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freedom's bright noon, and Slavery's twilight 

cloud ; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone. 
Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud 
Home of Leonidas ! thy halls are low. 
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled. 
O'er thee unmark'd the sunbeams fade or glow, 
And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread ; 
And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, 
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound. 
Vol, II. 17 



194 MODERN GREECE. 

LVIII. 

Tajgetus still lifts his awful brow, 

High o'er the mouldering city of the dead, 

Sternly sublime; while o'er his robe of snow 

Heaven's floating tints their warm suffusions spread. 

And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 

By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain. 

While whisp'ring there, his own wild graceful 

reeds 
Rise as of old, when hail'd by classic strain; 
There the rose laurels still in beauty wave, (26) 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 

grave. 

LIX. 

Oh! thus it is with man — a tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have pass'd away 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay. 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be ; 
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled, 
And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the 
dead. 

LX. 

And still the olive spreads its foliage round 
Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. 
Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries crown'd, 
Deem'd a meet offering for celestial powers. 



MODERN GREECE. 195 

The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ; (2T) 
They waved around the Olympic victor's head ; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd bier o'erspread : 
Those rites have vanish'd — but o'er vale and hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd still. (28) 

LXI. 

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis ! where thy fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high ? 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, 
The long procession's awful pageantry? 
Q,uench'd is the torch of Ceres (29) — all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign. 
There never more shall choral hymns resound, 
O'er the hush'd earth and solitary main ; 
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows. 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 

LXII. 

And oh ! ye secret and terrific powers. 

Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt. 

How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers. 

Where Superstition trembled as she knelt ! 

Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made 

The elements your voice, the wind and w^ave ; 

Spirits ! whose influence darken'd many a shade. 

Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 

How long your power the awe- struck nations 

sway'd. 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly 

obey'd ! 



196 MODERN GREECE. 

LXIII. 

And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not; 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peopling Vk'ith shadowy powers each dell and grot 1 
Awful is nature in her savage forms. 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might. 
And mystery then v*?as in the rush of storms, 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night. 
And mortals heard Fate's language in the blast. 
And rear'd your forest-shrines, ye phantoms o£ the 
past ! 

LXIV. 

Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh 
But with prophetic sound ! — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight, reveal'd the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures, and convey'd 
Their inspiration ; still they hover'd round, 
Hallow'd the temple, whisper'd through the shade, 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmur'd still. 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the 
hill. 

LXV. 

Now is the train of Superstition flown. 
Unearthly Beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. 



MODERN GREECE. 197 

Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave, 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep ; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave, (30) 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. 
Oh ! that such dreams alone had fled that clime. 
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed 
by time ! 

LXVI. 

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams; 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard. 
Her vales, that foster'd Art's divinest dreams ! 
But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, 
And all around pervading influence pour'd. 
That lent the harp of JEschylus its tone. 
And proudly hallow'd Lacedaemon's sword. 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone. 
With them its ardours lived— with them its light is 
flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes, Corinth, Argos! — ye, renown'd of old. 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name? 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame. 
The work of centuries — we gaze on you. 
Oh cities ! once the glorious and the free. 
The lofty tales that charm'd our youth renew. 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be ? 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb. 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their doom ! 
17* 



198 MODERN GREECE. 

LXVIII. 

How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour'd, 
Fair Elis! o'er thy consecrated vales? (31) 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and 

sword, 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude. 
As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude. 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke. 
Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow'd beneath 

the yoke. 

LXTX. 

And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echo'd than the strain 
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain ! 
There, though at times Aipheus yet surveys, 
On his green banks renew'd, the classic dance. 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays. 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell 
'Midst Fan's deserted haunts, by fountain, eave, and 
dell. 

LXX. 

But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined. 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; 



MODERN GREECE. 199 

Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, 
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light, 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; (32) 
Oh ! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past awhile restored, the present but a dream. 

LXXI. 

Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more! 
Hark — hymns of triumph swell on every gale! 
Lo — bright processions move along thy shore I 
Again thy temples, 'midst the olive-shade, 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade. 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies; 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien, 
In their calm beauty smile, around the sun-bright 
scene. 

Lxxn. 

Again renew'd by Thought's creative spells, 
Tn all her pomp thy city, Theseus I towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
There marble fanes in finish'd grace ascend. 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows ; 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave, in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 



200 MODERN GREECE. 

LXXIII. 

Bright as* that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, (33) 
On summer seas, that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand; 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades. 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest. 
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades. 
Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast; 
Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears. 
As Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. 

LXXIV. 

Still be that cloud withdrawn — oh! mark on high. 
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane, august in perfect symmetry. 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies. 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue ; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 

LXXV. 

And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. 



MODERN GREECE. 201 

Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in light. 
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 
And seem indeed vvhate'er devotion deems. 
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its 
beams. 

LXXVI. 

But oh ! what words the vision may portray. 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine? 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array. 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest, 
And sculptured aegis, to perfection wrought. 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest. 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought ; 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose, — 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. 

LXXVII. 

Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 

Through time's deep shadows all thy splendour 

trace. 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race. 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Foster'd by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes form'd, and o'er their name 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 



202 MODERN GREECE. 

LXXVIII. 

Mark in the throng'd Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyr'd brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 
Holy the amaranth strewM upon their grave ! (34) 
And hark — unrivall'd eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice i 
Hark — Pericles records their honour'd names ! (35) 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom? 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the 
tomb ? 

LXXIX. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth; 
Theirs are enshrined names, and every heart 
Shall bear the blazon'd impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise, 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record ; 
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies. 
Their name shall be their country's rallying word ! 
While fane and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell. 

ijX.XX. 

City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind. 
Thus hallow'd by the memory of the dead : 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest ray. 



MODERN GREECE. 203 

'Tis but a vision nov/ — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray ; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 
* thought. 

LXXXI. 

Fall'n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies, and tragic lore ; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung. 
The song that hail'd Harmodius peals no more. 
Thy proud Piraeus is a desert strand. 
Thy stately shrines are mould'ring on their hill, 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand. 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent (36) — her image gone, 
Silent the sage's bower — ^the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 

LXXXIL 

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
Wond'ring we view, and silently revere. 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By vanish'd beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnidcence of Rome, 
All that dominion there hath left to time ; 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome. 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime. 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal, 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal. 



204 MODERN GREECE. 

LXXXlII. 

Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste. 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 

Though with rich gold (37) and massy sculpture 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nile 
The first-horn temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays; 
City of Pericles ! O who, like thee. 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be ? 

LXXXIV. 

Thou ledd'st the way to that illumined sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst 

bear. 
Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlighten'd mind hath flown 
As to her countr}^ ; — thou hast been to earth 
A cynosure; — and, e'en from victory's throne 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; 
And nations, rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 
For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be ! 



MODERN GREECE. 205 

Empires and cities in oblivion lie. 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot : — 
To leave on earth renown that cannot die, 
Of high-soul'd genius is th' unrivall'd lot. 
Honour to thee, O Athens ! thou hast shown 
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. 

LXXXVI. 

Oh ! live there those who view with scornful eyes 
All that attests the brightness of thy prime ? 
Yes ; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies. 
And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 
Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead. 
Their homes are 'midst the works of noblest arts; 
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread. 
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. 
Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where Genius first reveal'd the triumphs of his hand ! 

LXXXVII. 

For them in vain the glowing . light may smile 
O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not 

rear'd. 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered. 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a 
nobler race. 
Vol. II. 18 



206 MODERN GREECE. 

LXXXVIIl. 

And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands. 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands, 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart? 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's sight, 
Fix'd in deep reverence on Minerva's fane. 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light. 
All that remain'd of forms adored in vain ; 
A few short years — and, vanish'd from the scene, 
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, 
And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd 
Thy walls; and thou — their fate must soon be 

thine ! 
But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renew'd in aught like thee ? 

XC. 

Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 



MODERN GREECE. 207 

Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill, 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared : 
Yet art thou honour'd in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 

spared ; 
Each hallovv'd stone, from rapine's fury borne. 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn. 

XCI. 

Yes; in those fragments, though by time defaced 
. And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlighten'd eye of taste. 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! (38) 
The soul of Athens lives in every line. 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. 

XCII. 
Mark — on the storied frieze the graceful train 
The holy festival's triumphal throng. 
In fair procession, to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol, move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace. 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace. 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chiefs proud 
mien ; 
E^ch ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene. 



208 MODERN GREECE. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, (39) 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression warm,(40) 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole; 
Those varied groups the same bright impress bear; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And w^ell that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 

XCIV. 

O, conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign. 
Arrest warm life in all its energies, 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine: while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish'd fate ! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a 
name on earth. 

xcv. 

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 

But once beheld, and never to return ? 

No — we may hail again thy bright career. 

Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 

Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 

A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been renew'd — 



MODERN GREECE. 209 

A light inherent — let not man despair: 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.(41) 

XCVI. 

Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced — 
Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased ; 
It clothes them still, though veil'd from common 

eyes. 
They once were gods and heroes (42) — and beheld 
As the blest guardians of their native scene; 
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell'd 
With awe that own'd their sovereignty of mien. 
— Ages have vanish'd since those hearts were cold. 
And still those shatter'd forms retain their godlike 

mould. 

XCVII. 

'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 
throne 
. They have look'd down on thousand storms of time ; 
Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown. 
They still remain'd, still tranquilly sublime ! 
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr'd. 
Th' Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot; 
Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard — 
But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 
And they have borne, to light another land, 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand. 
18* 



210 MODERN GREECE. 

XCVIII. 

Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but thine, 
In human works thus blending earth and heaven, 
O'er nature's truth hath shed that grace divine. 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ? 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power, 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could, from their ruins, bid young Genius tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ? 
And guide deep Thought to that secluded height 
Where Excellence is throned, in purity of light. 

XCIX. 

And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, 
Caught from these models, may illume the west? 
What British Angelo may rise to fame, (43) 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes confined, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ; (44) 
Deem not th' eternal energies of mind 
Sway'd by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be foster'd but by skies serene ? 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath 
been. 

C. 

But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown, 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind. 
O'er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone, 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! 
And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone. 



MODERN GREECE. 211 

Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught. 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 
thus lost. 

CI. 

Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone. 
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 
Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine own: 
Call his rich blooms to life — be thou their sun! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep. 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains. 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep, 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, 
And cry, "■ This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious 
race !" 



NOTES. 



Note \. 

Round Doric PcBStum's solitary fanes. 

"The Peestan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singular- 
ity of blowing twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic 
poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is 
of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume ; as a 
farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and 
autumn." Swinburne's Travels in the Two Sicilies. 



212 MODERN GREECE. 

Note 2. 
Sweird o'er that tide — the sons of battle sleep. 
In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it was usual for the 
soldiers before the fight to sing a psean, or hymn, to Mars, and 

after the fight another to ApoUo." See Potter's Antiquities 

of Greece, vol. ii. p. 155. 

Note 3. 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies. 
The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts 
of Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in his Itineraire de 
Paris a Jerusalem — "Parvenu au dernier degre du malheur, le 
Moraite s'arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort 
moins rigoureux. Vain espoir ! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas 
jusques dans les sables de Jourdain et dans les deserts de Pal- 
myre." 

Note 4. 

Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms. 

In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates his having met 
with several Greek emigrants who had established themselves 
in the woods of Florida. 

Note 5. 
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide. 
" La grace est toujours unie a la magnificence dans les scenes 
de la nature : et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers la 
mer les cadavres des pins et des chenes, on voit sur les deux 
courant lateraux, remonter, le long des rivages des iles flottantes 
de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont les roses jaunes s'elevent comme 
de petits papillons." Description of the Banks of the Missis- 
sippi, Chateaubriand's Atala. 

Note 6. 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time. 
" Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this 
mountain-channel (Tempe), and contrasting it with the course 



MODERN GREECE. 213 

of the Peneus, through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination 
instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once 
covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had 
subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in 
our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which 
the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The 
reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable 
to the scenery at this spot, and tliat the phrase, vale of Tempo, 
is one that depends on poetic fiction The real cha- 
racter of Tempo, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet pos- 
sesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given 

to it To those who have visited St. Vincent's rocks, 

below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, 
than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much 
larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as 
it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon ; 
and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its 
dimensions* but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and 
more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still 

more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath." 

Holland's Travels in Albania, <^c. 

Note 7. 

Years, that have changed thy river^s classic name. 

Tiie modern name of the Peneus is Salympria. 

Note 8. 

Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow. 

" Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked 
in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the 
vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the 
chasm ; where the surface renders it possible, the summits and 
ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small 
wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the 
banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between 
the water and the clifiB, it is covered by the rich and widely 



S14 MODERN GREECE. 

spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, 
which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and 
in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of 
the stream." . . . . " The rocks on each side of the vale 
of Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be called, I be- 
lieve, a coarse bluish-grey marble with veins and portions of the 

rock, in which the marble is of finer quality." Holland's 

Travels in Albania, <^c. 

Note 9. 
Where Greece her councils held, her Pythian victors crown'd. 

The Amphictyonic council was convened in spring and autumn 
at Delphi or Therraopyloe, and presided at the Pythian games 
which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. 

Note 10. 

Bloom the wild laurels o^er the warlike dead. 

*' This spot (the field of Mantinea) on which so many brave 
men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels." 
Pouqueville's Travels in the Morea. 

Note 11. 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around. 

For the accounts of the upas or poison-tree of Java, now gene- 
rally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the 
notes to Darwin's Botanic Garden. 

Note 12. 
Its sculptured lions, richly ivrought arcades. 
" The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called 
the court of the Lions ; it is ornamented with sixty elegant 
pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance 
to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian 
order. . . . But its principal ornament, and that from which 
it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, sup- 



MODERN GREECE. 215 

ported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imita- 
tion of the Brazen Sea of Solomon's temple." Bourgoanne's 

Travels in Spain. 

Note 13. 
Bright as that Pleiad sphered in Mccca\<} fane. 

" Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes Arabiques, 
sont designes par les ecrivains orientaux sous le nom de Ple'iade 
Arahique, et leurs ouvrages etaient suspendus autour de la 

Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque." Sismondi Litterature du 

Midi. 

Note 14. 
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine! 
'• The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious 

than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Csesars." Gibbon' 

Decline and Fall, <^c., vol. xii. p. 226. 

Note 15. 
The closing night of that Imperial race ! 
See the description of the night previous to the taking of 

Constantinople by Mahomet II. Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 

d^c. vol. xii. p. 225. 

Note 16. 

And the Seven Towers are scaled, and all is won and lost. 

"This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned 
as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which 
contributed to the defence of Constantinople, and it was the 
principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in 

the last periods of the empire." Pouqueville's Travels in 

the Morea. 

Note 17. 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane. 
See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence 
of Delphi. Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 396-7. 



216 MODERN GREECE. 

Note 18. 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose. 

"In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a 
demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when 
they were fighting the Medes at iNlarathon, a considerable part 
of the army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus com- 
pletely armed, and bearing- down before them upon- the barba- 
rians." Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of Theseus. 

Note 19. 

Or they ichose forms, to Alaric's aice-struck eye. 

" From Thermopylae to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) 
pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal 
antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has 
confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by 
the goddess Minerva, with her formidable segis, and by the angry 
phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the 

presence of the hostile deities of Greece." Gibbon's Decline 

and Fall, <^c., vol. v. p. 183. 

Note 20. 
Ye slept, oh heroes ! chief ones of the earth. 
"Even all the chief ones of the earth.'''' Isaiah, chap. xiv. 

Note 21. 
Perished the conquering weapons of your war. 

" How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war per- 
ished !" Samuel, book ii. chap. i. 

Note 22. 
O^er Suh's frownhig rocks she paused awhile. 

For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote war- 
fare with Ali Pa^ha, see Holland's Travels in Albania. 



MODERN GREECE. 217 

Note 23. 

Tken on the cliff the frantic mother stood. 

" It is related as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote 
women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining- the modern 
seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they 

might not become the slaves of the enemy." Holland's 

Travels^ <^c. 

Note 24. 

To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 

The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very 
inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient 
city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as 
very striking. 

Note 25. 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws. 

The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monu- 
ment in the pass of ThermopylaB has been thus translated: 
" Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their 
laws, and that we lie here." 

Note 26. 
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave. 

" In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds 
which were known in the earliest ages, and all the rivers and 
marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs 
and rivulets are covered with lilies, tube-roses, hyacinths, and 
narcissus orientalis." Pouqueville's Travels in the Morea. 

Note 27. 
The supplianV s hand its holy branches bore. 

It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound 

with wool. 

Vol. II. 19 



218 MODERN GREECE, 

Note 28. 

Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow' d still. 

The olive, according to Pouquoville, is still regarded with 
veneration by the people of the Morea. 

Note 29. 

Quencli'd is the torch of Ceres — all around. 

It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, 
for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and 
also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should 
present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey 
of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted 
by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna. Potter's Anti- 
quities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392. 

Note 30. 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave. 

The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian 
fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, 
though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, 
cannot be exactly ascertained. See Holland's Travels. 

Note 31. 
Fair Elis, o''er thy consecrated vales. 
Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being con- 
sidered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies 
inarching through it delivered up their weapons, and received 
them again when they had passed its bountiary. 

Note 32. 

And smile the longest in its lingering ray. 
" We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the pro- 
vince of Greece in which population first became settled, and 

where the earliest progress was made toward civilization." 

Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 35. 



MODERN GREECE. 219 

Note 33. 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand. 

Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, which 
is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a 
fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is 
quoted by Swinburne. 

" On the 15th August, 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my 
window, with a most wonderful spectacle : the sea that washes 
the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in 
length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near 
our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appear- 
ed like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, 
in chiaro scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all 
equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a 
moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long 
cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumer- 
able castles, all perfectly alike ; these again changed into towers, 
which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and 
at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees." Swin- 
burne's Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

Note 34. 

Holy the Amaranth strewed upon their grave. 

All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the 

Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; 

as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of 

Achilles. Potter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 232. 

Note 35. 
Hark ! Pericles records their honoured names. 

Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, 
celebrated, in a splendid manner, the obsequies of his country- 
men who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral 
oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great ap- 
plause ; and when he came down from the rostrum, the women 
paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and 
chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists. 
Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of Pericles. 



220 MODERN GREECE. 

Note 36. 

Minerva's veil is rent — her image gone. 

The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an 
awning over the statue of Minerva, in the Parthenon, was a 
principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival ; and it was em- 
broidered with various colours, representing the battle of the 
Gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. "When 
the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the 
Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that 
day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets 
of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The 
peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to 
Minerva. See Chandler's Travels, Stuart's Athens^ <fc. 

Note 37. 

Though with rich gold and massy sculpture graced. 

The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according 
to Winckelmann, in high preservation. 

Note 38. 
There in each wreck imperishably glows. 

"In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life 
can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure," is one of 
the observations of Mr. Haydon on the Elgin Marbles. 

Note 39. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form. 

*' Everything here breathes life, with a veracity, with an ex- 
quisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or 
parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly 
skill." Canova's Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 



MODERN GREECE. 221 

Note 40. 

There e'en the steeds with hold expression warm. 

Mr. West, after expressing- his admiration of the horse's head 
in Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds : 
— " We feel the same when we view the young equestrian Athe- 
nians, and, in observing them, we are insensibly carried on with 
the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we 
see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble." 
West's Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

Note 4L 

And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 

Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved 
within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singu- 
lar — because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Mar- 
bles could not remain in any country without a consequent 
improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist. 

See the Evidence given in Reply to Interrogatories from 

the Committee on the Elgin Marbles. 

Note 42. 

They once were gods and heroes — and beheld. 

The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. 
Lawrence, Mr. Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to 
be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, " because there 
is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and 
natural expression of the effect of action upon the human frame 
than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated 
statues. See The Evidence, ^*c. 

Note 43. 
What British Angelo may rise to fame. 

" Let us suppose a young- man at this time in London, endowed 
with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the 
arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian 
19* 



222 MODERN GREECE. 

excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a 
genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, 
in the aggregate, which adorned the Temple of Minerva at 
Athens ]"— West's Second Letter to Lord Elgin, 

Note 44. 

Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray. 

In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montes- 
quieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate 

of England to the progress of genius and the arts. See 

Hoare's Epochs of the Arts, page 84, 85. 



TRANSLATIONS 



TROM 



CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. 



" Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl'mgegni e gli studj degli 
uomini sono rivolti all' utilita. L'Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio ac- 
quistano tutto di novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi; e il voler farsi un 
nome tentando di dileltare, quand' altri v'aspira con piii giustizia giovando, 
sembra impresa dura e difficile." Savioli. 



(223) 



TRANSLATIONS 



FROM 



CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. 



SONNET 70. 

"Na metade do ceo subido ardia.** 

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam. 
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign. 
And for the living fount, the gelid stream. 
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 

'Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, 
The birds had shelter'd from the scorching ray; 
Hush'd were their melodies — and grove and glade 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay : 

When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain. 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved : 
i' Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
"By whom thou art not loved?" and thus replied 
An echo's murmuring voice — " Thou art not loved T* 

(225) 



226 CAMOENS. 

SONNET 282. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 
"Na ribeira do Euphrates assentado." 

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days for ever flown, 
While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 
O much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone. 

When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, 
Thus to their captive spoke, — "Why sleep thy lays? 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, 
And all thy triumphs in departed days! 

" Know'st thou not. Harmony's resistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm? 
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answer'd, — When the cup of woe 
Is fill'd, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow. 
The mourner's cure is not to sing — but die. 



PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

" Se la no assento da maior alteza." 

If in thy glorious home above 

Thou still recallest earthly love. 

If yet retain'd a thought may be 

Of him, whose heart hath bled for thee; 

Remember still how deeply shrined. 
Thine image in his joyless mind, 



CAMOENS. 227 

Each \vell-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten — thou alone art there! 

Remember that thine eye-beam's Hght 
Hath fled for ever from his sight, 
And, with that vanish'd sunshine lost. 
Is every hope he cherish'd most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart. 
Is all but weariness of heart, 
Each stream, whose music once was dear, 
Now murmurs discord to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days, 
Now, in the light of beauty drest. 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 



'O 



Through thee, the heavens are dark to him. 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve. 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets. 

So alter'd by its long regrets; 

Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 

And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 

SONNET 271. 

" A forraosura desta fresca serra." 

Tms mountain-scene, with sylvan grandeur crown'd. 
These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound 
Lulls every bosom to serene delight; 



228 CAMOENS. 

Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray; 
This clime, where all is new ; these murmuring seas ; 
Flocks, to the fold that hend their lingering way; 
Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze; 

And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense. 
Ne'er in thy absence, can delight my breast: 
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles: 
And joy may beam ; yet, 'midst her brightest smiles, 
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. 



SONNET 186. 

" Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia." 

Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, 
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show; 
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright. 
Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow; 

The rich redundance of that golden hair, 
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair. 
Where now those treasures ? — mouldering into clay ! 

Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn. 
Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn, 
Touch'd by the hand that gathers but to blight ! 
Oh ! how could Love survive his bitter tears ? 
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres. 
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night ! 



CAMOENS. 229 

SONNET 108. 
"Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando." 

Fair Tajo ! thou, whose calmly-flowing tide 
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide, 
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs, and 
swains. 

Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 
Shall tread thy shores ; and while to part I mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain. 
No dream that whispers — I may yet return ! 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair. 
Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine : 
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly. 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh. 
And blend my tears with other waves than thine! 



SONNET 23.— TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 
" Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao." 

Thou, to whose power my hopes, my joys, I give. 
Oh, fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave. 
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair ! 

Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, 
Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; 
But while one ray of life or thought is mine. 
Still shalt thou li/e, the inmate of my soul. 
Vol. II. 20 



230 CAMOENS. 

And if the tones of my uncultured song 

Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, 

Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure ; 

Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain. 

Still shall thy charms be deathless in mv strain, 

While Time, and Love, and Memory, shall endure. 



SONNET 19. 

" Alma minha gentil, que te partiste." 

Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere. 
How is yon Heaven eternally thine own. 
Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here! 

Oh ! if allow'd in thy divine abode 
Of aught on earth an image to retain. 
Remember still the fervent love which glow'd 
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 

And if thou deem that all my faithful grief, 

Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 

Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! 

Oh ! ask of Heaven, which call'd thee soon away, 

That I may join thee in those realms of day, 

Swiftly, as thou hast vanish'd from mine eyes. 



" Que estranho caso de amor !" 

How strange a fate in love is mine ! 
How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 
Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, 

With avarice I conceal : 
For did the world the tale divine, 



CAMOENS. 231 

My lot would then be deeper woe, 
And mine is grief that none must know. 

To mortal ears T may not dare 
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 
'T would plunge in ruin and despair 

Or me, or her I love. 
My soul delights alone to bear 
Her silent, unsuspected woe. 
And none shall pity, none shall know. 

Thus buried in my bosom's urn. 
Thus in my inmost heart conceal'd. 
Let me alone the secret mourn, 
In pangs unsoothed and unreveal'd. 
For, whether happiness or woe. 
Or life or death its power bestow. 
It is what none on earth must know. 



SONNET 58. 
"Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata." 

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart. 
Yet long enough protract his votary's days, 
To see the lustre from those eyes depart. 
The lode-stars now' that fascinate my gaze; 
To see rude Time the living roses blight. 
That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold. 
And all unpitying, change their tresses bright. 
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 

*"Your eyes are lode-stars." — Shakspeare. 



232 CAMOENS. 

Oh ! then thy heart an equal change will prove. 
And mourn the coldness that repell'd my love, 
When tears and penitence will all be vain; 
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, 
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 
Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 



SONNET 178. 
" Ja cantei, ja chorei a dura guerra." 

OrT have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woes, 
Which love for years hath mingled with my fate. 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose, 
That taught his votaries their deluded state. 

Nymphs! who dispense Castalia's living stream. 
Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal. 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme. 
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 

That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay — 
How false his smiles, his promises how vain ! 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire. 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre. 
For ever hush'd, shall slumber in your fane. 



SONNET 80. 

" Como quando do mar tempestuoso." 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main. 
But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave. 
Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 



CAMOENS. 233 

How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home ! 
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 
Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. 

Lady ! thus T, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight. 

Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free: 

But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 

Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



SONNET 239.— FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 

" Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando." 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 
Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, 
O hallow'd Sion ! and the vanish'd years. 
When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : 

Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 
Mute on the willows of the stranger's land; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, 
Our foes demanded from their captive band. 

How shall our voices, on a foreign shore 
(We answer'd those whose chains the exile wore), 
The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew? 
If I forget, 'midst grief and wasting toil, 
Thee, O Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 
May my right hand forget its cunning too ! 
20* 



234 CAMOENS. 

SONNET 128. 
" Huma admiravel herva se conhece." 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to 
hour, 

Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, 
Wakes, when Creation hails his dawning power. 

And most expands, when most her idol burns: 

But when he seeks the bosom of the deep. 
His faithful plant's reflected charms decay; 

Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour'd weep, 
Still fondly pining for the vanished ray. 

Thou whom I love, the daystar of my sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 

Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms. 
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, 

Born but to live within thine eye-beam's power. 



" Polo raeu apartaraento." 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 

In anguish at my last farewell. 

Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell, 

To make that moment bright? 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say. 
Which then could most my bosom sway, 

Affliction or delight? 



CAMOENS. 235 

It was, when Hope, oppressed with woes, 
Seem'd her dim eyes in death to close, 
That rapture's brightest beam arose 

In sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 
'Tis that my fate o'ercame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For oh ! her love, so long unknown, 
She then confess'd was all my own. 
And in that parting hour alone 

Reveal'd it to my sight. 
And now what pangs will rend my soul. 
Should fortune still, with stern control. 

Forbid me this delight. 

I know not if my bliss were vain. 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign. 

When exiled from her sight : 
Yet now what double woe for me. 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight. 



SONNET 205. 
" Quem diz que Amor he false, o enganoso. ' 

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain. 
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways; 
Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays. 



236 CAMOENS. 

For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind; 
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose; 
Oh! deem him one v^^hom stormy passions blind, 
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. 

If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! 

Here let the world his utmost rigour see. 

His utmost power exerted to annoy : 

But all his ire is still the ire of love ; 

And such delight in all his woes I prove, 

I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy ! 



SONNET 133. 

"Doces e claras aguas do Mondego." 

Waves of Mondego ! brilliant and serene. 
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays; 
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien. 
Witching my soul, in long-departed days; 

Yes, I forsake your banks ! but still my heart 
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore. 
And, suffering not one image to depart. 
Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 

Let Fortune's will, through many a future day, 
To distant realms this mortal frame convey, 
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ; 
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true. 
On thought's light pinion still shall fly to you. 
And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. 



CAMOENS. 237 

SONNET 181. 

"Onde acharei lugar tao apartado." 

Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude. 
Where loneliness so undisturb'd may reign 
That not a step shall ever there intrude 
Of roving man, or nature's savage train? 

Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, 
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, 
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 
But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom ; 

That there, 'midst frowning rocks, alone with grief 
Entomb'd in life, and hopeless of relief, 
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes — 
For, oh ! since nought my sorrows can allay. 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, 
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



SONNET 278. 
"Eu vivia de lagrimas isento." 

Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live 
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 
A thousand joys propitious Love can give 
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine. 

Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power; 
No care intruding to disturb my breast, 
I dwelt entranced in Love's Elvsian bower: 



238 CAMOENS. 

But Fate, such transports eager to destroy. 
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy. 
And bade the phantoms of delight begone; 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart. 
And left but memory to distract my heart. 
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. 



"Mi nueve y dulce querella." 

No searching eye can pierce the veil 
That o'er my secret love is thrown ; 

No outward signs reveal its tale, 
But to my bosom known. 

Thus, like the spark, whose vivid light 

In the dark flint is hid from sight. 
It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 

"Dunque si sfoga in pianto." 

In tears, the heart oppress'd with grief 
Gives language to its woes; 

In tears, its fulness finds relief. 
When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 

Who then unclouded bliss would seek 

On this terrestrial sphere ; 
When e'en Delight can only speak. 

Like Sorrow — in a tear? 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. PASTORINI. 239 

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

" Italia, Italia ! O tu cui die la sorte." 

Italia, oh ! Italia ! thou, so graced 
With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been 
A dower, whose fatal splendour may be traced 
In the deep -graven sorrows of thy mien ; 

Oh ! that more strength, or fewer charms were thine, 
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, 
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, 
Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bitterness ! 

Not then w^ould foreign hosts have drain'd the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed ; 
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd, 
Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, 
And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! 



PASTORINI. 

" Geneva mia, se con asciutto ciglio." 

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 

My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye. 

Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold. 

But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 

Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey. 

Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! 

And in each trace of devastation's way, 

Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight 



240 LOPE DE VEGA. 

Triumphs far less than suffering; virtue shine ! 

And on the spoilers high revenge is thine. 

While thy strong spirit unsuhdued remains. 

And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies, 

To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 

** Hail ! though in ruins, thou wert ne'er in chains /'* 



LOPE DE VEGA. 

•' Estese el cortesano." 

Let the vain courtier waste his days. 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 

The couch of down, the board of costly fare ; 
Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 
That waves the sceptre of command, 

And rear full many a palace in the air ; 
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 
The glowing sun, the genial wind, 

And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assigned ; 
And prize far more, in peace and health, 
Contented indigence than joyless wealth. 

Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend. 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless crown! 

Nectareous draughts and viands pure. 

Luxuriant nature will ensure ; 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 241 

These the clear fount, and fertile field, 
Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 
And when repose and visions reign, 
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain. 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. 

"No baxes temeroso, o peregrino." 

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim, here; 
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; 
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear, 
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 

Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode. 
So near the mansions of supreme delight; 
Pause not — but tread this consecrated road, 
'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. 

Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way. 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! 
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play. 
Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou linger still? 
Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife, 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 

Vol. n. 21 



242 BELLA CASA. CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 

DELLA CASA. 
VENICE. 

" Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte." 

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, 
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, 
Were once rude cabins 'midst a lonely waste, 
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 

Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train, 
Fearless, in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign. 
They sought these island precincts — to be free. 

Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose. 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 
Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless breast: 
Oh ! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 
O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest ! 



IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 

" L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso." 

The sainted spirit, which, from bliss on high, 
Descends, like dayspring, to my favour'd sight. 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky. 
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! 



METASTASIO. 243 

But, with the sweetness of her well-known smile, 
That smile of peace ! she bids my doubts depart. 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 
And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 

Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold. 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold, 
To soar with her, and mingle with the blest ! 
But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies. 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies. 
Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest. 



METASTASIO. 

" Al furor d'avversa Sorte." 

He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien, 

Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude. 

Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a trying 

scene. 
To smile at fate, and suflfer unsubdued. 

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms. 
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: 
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms 
The lofty spirit and enduring heart ! 



" Quella onda che ruina." 

The torrent wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous down the Alpine height. 
Complains and struggles in its course. 
But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 



244 METASTASIO. 

The stream in shadowy valley deep. 
May slumber in its narrow bed ; 
But silent, in unbroken sleep, 
Its lustre and its life are fled. 



" Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie." 

Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand 
Her fostering dews, the morning lightly shed, 
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann'd, 
And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread; 

That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the 

ground. 
To brighter worlds thy favoured charms hath borne ; 
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown'd, 
There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn. 

Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower ! 
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 
Sheltered with tenderest care from frost or shower, 
And each rough season's chill vicissitude. 
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 
Immortal fragrance, and un withering bloom. 



" Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi, e spine." 

Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread. 
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these ? 
Think'st thou that / thy threatening mien shall dread 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? 



METASTASIO. 245 

Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, 
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway ! 
My constant soul should triumph unsubdued. 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 

Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? 

No ! I have long thine utmost power defied. 

And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 

Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, 

With each successive shock the temper'd steel 

More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. 



"Parlagli d'un periglio." 

WouLDST thou to Love of Danger speak?- 
Veil'd are his eyes, to perils blind ! 
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek ? - 
He is a child of wayward mind ! 

But with a doubt, a jealous fear. 
Inspire him once — the task is o'er; 
His mind is keen, his sight is clear. 
No more an infant, blind no more. 



"Sprezza il furor del vento." 

Unbending 'midst the wintry skies, 
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, 
And stern in rugged strength, defies 
The rushing of the storm. 
21* 



246 METASTASIO. 



Then sever'd from his native shore. 
O'er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, 
Still with those winds he braved before. 
He proudly struggles there. 



"Sol pud dir che sia contento." 

Oh ! those alone, whose sever'd hearts 
Have mourn'd through ling'ring years in vain, 
Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, 
When Fate unites them once again. 

Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, 
Whose language hails that moment bright, 
When past afflictions but endear 
The presence of delight ! 



" Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle." 

Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain, 
I go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain, 
To triumph — not to die ! 

I with fresh laurels go, to crown 
My closing days at last. 
Securing all the bright renown 
Acquired in dangers past. 



/ 



QUEVEDO. JUAN DE TARSIS. 247 

aUEVEDO. 
ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 

"Buscas en Roma a Roma, 6 peregrine!" 

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou Rome ? 
Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled; 
Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 

That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days. 
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
The triumphs wen by Latium, than by Time. 

Tiber alone survives — the passing wave 
That bathed her towers, now murmurs by her grave, 
Wailing, with plaintive sound, her fallen fanes. 
Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is past. 
That seem'd for years eternal framed to last, 
Nought but the wave, a fugitive — remains. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 

"Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos." 

Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers. 
In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers. 
For the rude convent-garb, and couch of thorn ; 



248 TORQUATO TASSO. 

Thou that, escaping from a world of cares. 
Hast found thj haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs. 
To shun the midnight perils of the main ; 

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour. 
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore, 
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies; 
Oh ! how shouldst thou the exulting paean raise. 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze ! 



TORQUATO TASSO. 

"Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." 

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose. 
To the mild sunshine only half displayed. 
That shunn'd its bashful graces to disclose. 
And in its veil of verdure sought a shade: 

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright) — 

Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, 

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. 

Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade ; 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd. 
Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, loveher is the flower. 
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour. 
More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO.-^ PETRARCH. 249 

BERNARDO TASSO. 

" Qu3st' ombra che giammai non vide il sole." 

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom 
Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play'd, 
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom, 
'Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; 

Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals. 
Whose murmuring wave, tranvsparent as it flows. 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals, 
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; 

This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers, and of visions fair ! 
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose. 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close. 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 

" Chi vuol veder quantunque puo natura," 

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth. 
All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth 
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind : 



250 PETRARCH. 

And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long. 
First calls the brightest and the best away; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng. 
The angelic mortal flies, and will not slay ! 

Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental grace. 

In one consummate form thine eye shall trace. 

Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! 

Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays. 

My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze : 

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



" Se lamentar augelli, o verdi frond e." 

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours 

Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive bird ; 

Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 

flowers. 
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; 

Her, whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 
I see and hear ; though dwelling far above. 
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs. 
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. 

" Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," 
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say), 
" While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows ? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight. 
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light 
Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to close !'* 



PIETRO EEMBO. FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 25 

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. 

"O Muerte! que sueles ser." 

Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, 
Whom nature trembles to survey, 
O Death ! to me, the child of grief. 
Thy welcome power would bring relief. 

Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; 
The pangs that bid existence close, 
Ah ! sure are far less keen than those. 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 

"O Zefiretto, che movendo vai." 

Sylph of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions light 
Wave gently round the tree I planted here. 
Sacred to her, whose soul hath wing'd its flight 
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere | 

Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! 
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour ; 
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail 
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. 

Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form. 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, 



252 GESNER. 

Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wmd, 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, 
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free 



GESNER. 
MORNING SONG. 

"Willkommen, fruhe raorgensonn.'' 

Hail ! morning sun, thus early bright ; 
Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day ! 
Through the dark woods that fringe the height. 
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 

Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear, 
Bright on the water's glittering fall. 
And life, and joy, and health appear. 
Sweet morning ! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 
From beds of fragrance, where they lay, 
And roving wild on dewy wing. 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, 
Now from each mind withdraw their spell, 
While the young loves delighted meet. 
On Rosa's cheek to dwell. 



GERMAN SONG. 253 

Speed, zephyr ! kiss each opening flower. 
Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower. 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

There, o'er her downy pillow fly. 
Wake the sweet maid to life and day; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, 
And o'er her bosom play; 

And whisper, when her eyes unveil. 
That I, since morning's earliest call. 
Have sigh'd her name to ev'ry gale. 
By the lone waterfall. 



GERMAN SONG. 

"Madchen, lemet Amor kennen." 

Listen, fair maid, my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well. 

His looks the traitor prove. 
Dost thou not see that absent smile. 
That fiery glance replete with guile? 

Oh! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise. 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, 

Or with complaint would move ; 
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy. 
Changing each hour, he knows not why, 

Oh! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 
Vol. XL 22 



254 CHAULIEU. 

There's magic in his every wile, 
His Hps, well practised to beguile, 

Breathe roses when they move ; 
See, now with sudden rage he burns, 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns; 

Oh! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

He comes, without the bow and dart. 
That spares not e'en the purest heart; 

His looks the traitor prove; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile, 
Deceit is lurking in that smile. 

Oh ! trust him not — 'tis love ! 



CHAULIEU. 

"Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau." 

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring. 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to my musing hours. 

Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me 
The dayspring of existence rose. 
Soon shall my dust return to thee. 
And 'midst my sires repose. 

Muses, that watch'd my childhood's morn, 
'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye. 
Fair trees, that here beheld me born. 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE VEGA. LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 255 

GARCILASO DE VEGA. 

"Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera." 

EjfjoY the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 

Ere envious Age is hastening on his way 

With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow 

The rose will fade when storms assail the year, 

And Time, who changeth not his swift career. 

Constant in this, will change all else below! 



LORENZO DE' MEDICI 
VIOLETS. 

"Non di verdi giardin ornati e colli.'* 

We come not, fair one, to thy hand of snow. 
From the soft scenes by Culture's hand array'd; 
Not reared in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, 
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade! 

There once, as Venus wander'd, lost in woe. 
To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood. 
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk'd below. 
With print relentless drew celestial blood ! 

Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, 
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught. 
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes ; 
We were not foster'd in our shadowy vales. 
By guided rivulets, or summer gales — 
Our dew and air have been, Love's balmy tears and 
sighs ! 



256 PINDEMONTE. 

PINDEMONTE. 

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. 

" Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi ? " 

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away ? 
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? 
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day. 
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? 

O thou, Canova ! soaring high above 

Italian art — with Grecian magic vying ! 

We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love, 

But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? 

Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing 
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying 

In many- a line of undulating grace ; 
While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending. 
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, 

One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to 
trace. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

(257) 

22* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEASHORE. 

O WANDERER ! would thy heart forget 

Each earthly passion and regret, 

And would thy wearied spirit rise 

To commune with its native skies; 

Pause for a while, and deem it sweet 

To linger in this calm retreat ; 
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 

Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone, 
Here nature's voice is heard alone : 
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour. 
Is rushing on its wing of power. 
And spirits of the deep awake. 
And surges foam, and billows break. 
And rocks and ocean-caves around, 
Reverberate each awful sound; 
That mighty voice, with all its dread control, 
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. 

(259) 



260 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But when no more the sea-winds rave, 
When peace is brooding on the wave. 
And from earth, air, and ocean rise 
No sounds but plaintive melodies ; 
Soothed by their softly mingling swell. 
As daylight bids the world farewell. 
The rustling wood, the dying breeze. 
The faint, low rippling of the seas, 
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 

Is thine a heart the world hath stung. 
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? 
Hast thou some grief that none may know, 
Some lonely, secret, silent woe ? 
Or have thy fond affections fled 
From earth, to slumber with the dead? — 
Oh ! pause awhile — the world disown. 
And dwell with nature's self alone ! 
And though no more she bids arise 
Thy soul's departed energies. 
And though thy joy of life is o'er. 
Beyond her magic to restore ; 
Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, 
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 261 



DIRGE OF A CHILD. 

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 
Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 
With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 

O blest departed One ! 
Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 
Blush'd into dawn and pass'd away. 

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 
To stain thy cherub-soul and form. 
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower. 

That never felt a storm ! 
The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath. 
All that it knew from birth to death. 

Thou wert so like a form of light, 
That heaven benignly calPd thee hence, 
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 

O'er thy sv/eet innocence : 
And thou, that brighter home to bless. 
Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness ! 

Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd. 

Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! 

How soon thy brightness had been stain'd 

With passion or with grief! 
Now not a sullying breath can rise. 
To dim thy glory in the skies. 



262 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb ; 

No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 

Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath ; 
Each glowing season shall combine 

Its incense there to breathe ; 
And oft, upon the midnight air, 
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 

And oh ! sometimes in visions blest. 

Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 

And bear, from thine own world of rest, 

Some balm for human woes ! 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine to messenger of heaven?^ 



INVOCATION. 

Hush'd is the world in night and sleep, 

Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death ; 

Too rude to break a calm so deep. 

Were music's faintest breath. 

Descend, bright Visions ! from aerial bowers. 

Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours. 

^ Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, page 287. 



INVOCATION. 263 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, 

The weary day have mortals past; 

Now, dreams of bliss ! be yours to reign, 

And all your spells around them cast; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 

O ! bear your softest balm to those, 
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead, 
To them that world of peace disclose. 
Where the bright soul is fled: 
Where Love, immortal in his native clime, 
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land. 

On your light wings the exile bear ; 

To feel once more his heart expand. 

In his own genial mountain-air; 
Hear the wild echoes' well-known strains repeat, 
And bless each note, as Heaven's own music sweet. 

But oh ! with Fancy's brightest ray, 
Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 

And waft his spirit to its native skies 

Who finds no charm in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night. 
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 



264 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

])escend, bright visions ! from your airy bower 
Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour. • 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

GENER.4L SIR E — D P — K — M. 

Brave spirit ! mourn'd with fond regret. 
Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon, 
Oh ! who could deem thy star should set 
So darklv and so soon ! 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind 
Which mark'd and closed thy brief career. 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies wither'd on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom. 
The soldier's tear thy meed shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 

Might Fate liJive rear'd for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul'd chief! 
In those bright days of glory fled. 
When triumph so prevail'd o'er grief. 

We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each tear-drop then 
Was worthy of a warrior's grave: 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave? 



TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H Y E LL S. 265 

There, on the hattle-fieldsK of Spain, 
'Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene, 
Or on Vittoria's blood-red plain, 

Meet had thy deathbed been. 

We mourn not that a hero's life 
Thus in its ardent prime should close ; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife. 
But died 'midst conquer'd foes! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 
In that last moment cheer'd thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name. 

That ne'er may be forgot: 

And many a tale of triumph won. 
Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

SIR H — Y E — LL — S. 

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 



" Happy are they who die in youth when their renown is around them.' 

— OSSIAN. 



Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was seal'd 
On England's proudest battle-field? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full resistless tide? 
Vol. II. 23 



266 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Oh, mourn him not ! 
By deeds hke his that field was won. 
And Fate could yield to Valour's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry. 
He saw the vanquish'd eagles fly ; 
And envied be his death of fame. 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name 

That nought shall dim : 
No cloud obscured his glory's day. 
It saw no twilight of decay — 

Weep not for him ! 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone ! 
Oh ! proudly should the war-song swell. 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, 'midst the battle-storm — 
Th' avenging angel — rear'd her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise. 
Vain were the minstrePs noblest lays; 
Since he, the soldier's guiding-star, 
The Victor-chief, the lord of war, 

Has own'd thy fame : 
And oh ! like his approving word, 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name? 



GUERILLA SONG. 267 



GUERILLA SONG. 

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH 
PATRIOT MINA. 

Oh ! forget not the hour, when through forest and 

vale, 
We return'd with our chief to his dear native halls ! 
Through the woody Sierra there sigh'd not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement- 
walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light. 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
sight. 

We enter'd that home — all was loneliness round. 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound, 
Ah ! such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had pass'd, like the poison-wind's 

breath. 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 



Oh! forget not that hour — let its image be near. 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest. 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear. 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast. 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive, and hills of the vine. 



268 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past. 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 
I crouch before the wintry blast. 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; 
The heroes of my youth are fled. 
They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred-chiefs in days of yore. 

Ye fill an unremember'd grave, 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 

The records of your wars are gone. 

Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth. 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 
Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time. 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that haiPd your spirits' flame. 

Still kindling in the combat's shock, 

Have seen, since darkness veiPd your fame. 

Sons of the desert and the rock ! 

Another, and another race. 

Rise to the battle and the chase. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 269 

Descendants of the mighty dead! 
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! 
O ! let me join their spirits fled, 
O ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart, 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown; — 
Why should the feeble linger here. 
When all the pride of life is gone? 
Warriors! why still the stroke deny. 
Think ye Ontara fears to die ? 

He fear'd not in his flower of days. 
When strong to stem the torrent's force. 
When through the desert's pathless maze, 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 
When war was sunshine to his sight, 
And the wild hurricane, delight ! 

Shall then the warrior tremble now? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er ? 
Hung on the pine his idle bow. 
His pirogue useless on the shore ? 
When age hath dimm'd his failing eye. 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? 

Sons of the brave I delay no more. 
The spirits of my kindred call ; 
'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall ! 
To join the brethren of his prime. 
The mighty of departed time. 
23* 



270 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

Soft skies of Italy ! how richly drest. 
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west. 
Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep. 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep. 
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain -stream. 

Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray. 
That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away. 
And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose: 
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, 
And roves the Alpine gale o^er solitudes afar. 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN "WA- 
VERLEY." 

Sox of the mighty and the free ? 
High-minded leader of the brave I 
Was it for lofty chief like thee. 

To fill a nameless grave? 
Oh ! if amidst the valiant slain. 
The warrior's bier had been thy lot. 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain. 

We then had mourn'd thee not. 



,1 

i 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF. 271 

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, 

The watchword of despair ! 
Yet oh ! if gallant spirit's power 
Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, 
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour, 

Last of a mighty line ! 

O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 
But cannot chase their silent gloom; 
Those beams that gild thy native walls 

Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 
Thy green woods wave in vernal air. 
But the loved scenes may vainly smile : 

Not e'en thy dust is there. 

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 
Is mingling with the torrent's roar, 
Unmark'd, the wild deer sport around : 

Thou lead'st the chase no more ! 
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still. 
Those halls where peaPd the choral stream ; 
They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill. 

And all is hush'd again. 

No banner from the lonely tower 
Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high; 
There the tall grass, and summer iSower, 
Unmark'd shall spring and die. 



272 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

No more thy bard, for other ear, 
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine — 
Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear, 
Last of a mighty line ! 



THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG 

Chieftaiivs, lead on ! our hearts beat high, 

Lead on to Salem's towers ! 
Who would not deem it bliss to die. 

Slain in a cause like ours? 
The brave who sleep in soil of thine. 
Die not entomb'd but shrined, O Palestine ! 

Souls of the slain in holy war ! 

Look from your sainted rest. 
Tell us ye rose in Glory's car. 

To mingle with the blest ; 
Tell us how short the death-pang's power. 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 

Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Bid every string triumphant swell 
Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour. 

The wildest rage of fight. 
Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 

And nerve our hearts with might. 



THE crusaders' WAR-SONG. 273 

Envied be those for thee that fall, 

Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 

For them no need that sculptured tomb 

Should chronicle their fame, 
Or pyramid record their doom, 

Or deathless verse their name ; 
It is enough that dust of thine 
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine ! 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 

For combat's glorious hour ; 
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 

On Salem's loftiest tower ! 
We burn to mingle in the strife, 
Where hut to die ensures eternal life. 



THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 

It was in the battle of SherifFmoor that young Clanronald fell, 
leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispi- 
rited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengary, chief 
of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, 
waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, " To-day for revenge, 
and to-morrow for mourning !" The Highlanders received a new 
impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore 
down all before them. — See the Quarterly Review article of 
" Culloden Papers." 

Oh ! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell ; 
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the spot. 
We spared not one moment to murmur " Farewell." 



274 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

And wildly, Clanronald ! we echo'd the vow, 
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our 

hand; 
Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee now, 
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band. 
When they join'd, in wild chorus, the cry of the chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave ; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave — 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
"To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 

Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race : 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set : 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase. 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet ! 
Nor vainly have echo'd the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!" 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day. 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam. 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme. 



TO THE EYE. 275 

And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart, 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt. 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! 
And by some spell of undefined control, 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 

Thy glance is nature, and thy language, truth ; 

And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, 

Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 

Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal. 

Or speak one thought that interest would conceal; 

While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given 

But to reflect the purity of heaven ; 

O ! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace 

Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 

When Genius lends thee all his living hght. 
Where the full beams of intellect unite ; 
When love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues. 
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews ; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well. 
Bid some new feeling to existence start. 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 

And O ! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days. 



276 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

(x'Vs glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality ;) 
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? 
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky. 
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die ! 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams w^ere in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue. 
When round him, pealing to the sky. 
The shout of victory rung ! 

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 

A smile so bright illumed his face — 

Oh! never, of the light it shed, 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His v^as a death, whose rapture high 
Transcended all that life could yield; 
His warmest prayer was so to die. 
On the red battle-field ! 

And they may feel, who loved him most, 
A pride so holy and so pure : 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 
A treasure thus secure ! 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 277 

STANZAS 

ON 

THE LATE NATIONAL CALAMITY, 
THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 



" Helas ! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu'on peut 

imaginer de plus glorieux Le passe et le present nous garan- 

tissoient I'avenir Telle etoit I'agreable histoire que nous fai- 

sions ; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n'y avoit que la duree 
de sa vie ; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir etre en peine, car, 
qui eut pu seulement penser, quelesanneeseussent du manquer, 
a une jeunesse qui sembloit si vivel" Bossuet. 



I. 

Mark'd ye the mingling of the city's throng, 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright? 
Prepare the pageant, and the choral song, 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! 
And hark ! what rumour's gathering sound is nigh 1 
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep ? 
Away ! be hush'd ! ye sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep ! 
Weep ! for the storm ha<:h o'er us darkly past. 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast ! 

II. 

Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame? 
Vol. II. 24 



278 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Oh ! when hath life possess'd, or death destroyed 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled ? 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ? 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning-star hath vanish'd, and the tomb 
Throws its deep lengthen'd shade o'er distant years 
to come. 

III. 

Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare? 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, 
Danger and fear seem'd past — but thou wert there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hour of nature's awful throes ; 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath. 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thoUi dark Spirit ! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven is all 
serene. 

IV. 

And she is gone— the royal and the young, 
In soul commanding, and in heart benign ; 
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, 
Glow'd with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well. 
Breathe forth her name, unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell, 
Wake from that breast one sympathy again : 
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 279 

V. 

Oh ! many a bright existence we have seen 
Q,uench'd, in the glow and fulness of its prime : 
And many a cherish'd flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropt, ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier; 
And we have wept when soaring genius died, 
Check'd in the glory of his mid career ! 
But here our hopes were center'd — all is o'er. 
All thought in this absorb'd — she was — and is no 
more I 

VI. 

We watch'd her childhood from its earliest hour. 
From every word and look blest omens caught; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fix'd the patriot's ardent eye. 
And hope still bloom'd — one vista still was fair; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky. 
She was our day-spring — all was cloudless there; 
And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of distant 
days. 

VII. 

Now hath one moment darken'd future years. 
And changed the track of ages yet to be ! — 
Yet, mortal ! 'midst the bitterness of tears. 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 



280 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Oh ! while the clear perspective smiled in light, 
Wisdom should then have temper'd hope's excess. 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright. 
We might have trembled at its loveliness : 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear. 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold ungenial air. 

VIII. 

All smiled around thee — Youth, and Love, and Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze. 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art pass'd away, 
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw. 
O'er one brief hour of life, a fleeting ray. 
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe ! 
Oh ! who shall dare to woo such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know, that tears for thee were 
vain ? 

IX. 

Yet there is one who loved thee — and whose soul 
With mild affections nature form'd to melt; 
His mind hath bow'd beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief — but tJiis shall be unfelt ! 
Years have gone by — and given his honour'd head 
A diadem of snow — his eye is dim — 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread. 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone 
He dwells on earth, while thou, in life's full pride 
art gone ! 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 281 

X. 

The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep, 
But not repine — for many a storm hath past, 
And, pillow'd on her own majestic deep, 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plain, 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main, 
Smiled, in serene defiance of his wrath ! 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky. 
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. 

XI. 

Her voice hath been th' awakener — and her name 
The gathering- word of nations — in her might. 
And all the awful beauty of her fame. 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood. 
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower; 
That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er the flood, 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour. 
Away, vain dreams of glory! — in the dust 
Be humbled, ocean-queen ! and own thy sentence 
just ! 

xn. 

Hark! 'twas the death-bell's note! which, full and 

deep, 
Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone. 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swell'd on the stillness of the air alone ! 
24* 



283 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street. 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet. 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene. 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had been. 

XIII. 

The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell. 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright ; 
And his last mellow'd rays around us dwell. 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er. 
What slow procession moves, with measured tread ? — 
Lo ! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead? 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away. 

XIV. 

But other light is in that holy pile. 

Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ; 

There, through the dim arcade, and pillar'd aisle, 

The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. 

There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain. 

And all around the stamp of woe may bear ; 

But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, 

Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them — is there. 

No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns. 

Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns. 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 283 
XV. 

We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One! 

We pity — but the living, not the dead; 

A cloud hangs o'er us — ^ " the bright day is done," 

And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. 

And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, 

Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought ; 

He, with thine early fond affections blest, 

Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; 

What but a desert to his eye, that earth. 

Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth ^ 

XVI. 

Oh ! there are griefs for nature too intense. 

Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul ; 

Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense 

Strength e'en to feel, at once, their dread control. 

But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour 

Of the seal'd bosom, and the tearless eye. 

Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power 

To grasp the fulness of its agony ! 

Its death-like torpor vanish'd — and its doom; 

To cast its own dark hues o'er light and nature's bloom. 

XVII. 

And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and left, 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall'd ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall'd. 



^ " The bright day is done, 

And we are for the dark." — Shakspeare. 



284 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Years may pass on — and, as they roll along. 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng. 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; 
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple 
shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee ; 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, 
But all it was — oh ! never more shall be. 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter snow. 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return ; 
The faded cheek again with health may glow. 
And the dim eye wdth life's warm radiance burn ; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom. 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. 

XIX. 

But thou — thine hour of agony is o'er, 

And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run. 

While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more. 

Tells that thy crown — though not on earth — is won. 

Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 

Nought but the bloom and sunshine — and for thee. 

Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone. 

The course of love ran smooth,* and brightly free — 

* " The course of true love never did run smooth." 

Shakspeaiie. 



DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 285 

Not long such bliss to mortal could be given, 

It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven. 

XX. 

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye, 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came? 
Ours is that loss — and thou wert blest to die ! 
Thou might'st have lived to dark and evil years. 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast; 
But thy spring morn was all undimm'd by tears, 
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last ! 
And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 

XXI. 

Daugh'or of Kings ! from that high sphere look down. 
Where still in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; 
W^here dimly shines to thee that mortal crown. 
Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear. 
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain. 
And, in their hours of loneliness — be near! 
Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh. 
Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that bliss eternity I 

Nov. 23, 1817. 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 

FROM SISMONDl's " LITTERATURE DU MIDI." 

ViNCENzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknow- 
ledged, by the unanimous consent of the Italians, as 
the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impas- 
sioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by 
the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels, is 
felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees 
the objects of his thoughts — they are present, and 
clothed with life — before him, and a flexible and har- 
monious language is always at his command to paint 
them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that 
poetry is only another species of painting, he makes 
the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent to 
the eyes of all the pictures created by his imagination 
for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him 
which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed 
by the study of Dante, he has restored to the charac- 
ter of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties 
by which it was distinguished at its birth ; and he 
proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur 
and dignity peculiar to himself It is extraordinary 

Vol, II. 25 (289) 



290 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

that, with something so lofty in his manner and style 
of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character 
should not be regulated by principles of greater con- 
sistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass 
unobserved : but circumstances have thrown the fullest 
light upon the versatility of Monti ; and his glory, as 
a poet, is attached to works which display him in con- 
tinual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of 
the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly cho- 
sen political subjects for his compositions, and he has 
successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion 
to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, 
that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his 
feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, 
he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign 
they may be to his individual sentiments.' In these 
political poems — the object and purport of which are 
so diflferent — the invention and manner are, perhaps, 
but too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the 
death of Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, since 
its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, 

^ The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Die- 
tionnaire des Girouetles) on the general versatility of poets, 
seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that 
it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express 
purpose of such an application. — " Le cerveau d'un poete est 
d'une cire molle et flexible, otj s'imprime naturellement tout ce 
qui le flatte, le seduit, et I'alimente. La muse du chant n'a pas 
de partie; c'est une etourdie sans consequence, qui folatre 
egalement et sur de riches gazons et sur d'arides bruj'^eres. Un 
poete en delire chante indiflerement Titus et Thamask, Louis 
12me et Cromwell, Christine de Su^de, et Stanchon la Vielleuse. 



THE EASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 291 

who always imitated Dante, has now also very fre- 
quently imitated himself. 

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put 
to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at 
the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition 
against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was 
then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the 
Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville's 
death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the 
condemnation which his philosophical principles had 
merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a 
substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned 
by Divine Justice to traverse France, until the crimes 
of that country have received their due chastisement, 
and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and re- 
verses to which he has contributed, by assisting to 
extend the progress of the Revolution. 

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province 
to province, that he may behold the desolation of his 
lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and 
makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis 
XVJ., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies pre- 
pared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of 
her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the 
contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three 
hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, like the 
poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, 
and lines, are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but 
the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Bas- 
ville through the suffering world; and this faithful 
guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-hero of 
the poem, acts precisely the same part which is per- 



292 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

formed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself, thinks, 
feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. 
Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary 
character ; he describes him as feeling more pity than 
remorse, and he seems to forget, in thus identifying 
himself with his hero, that he has at first represented 
Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel 
and a ferocious revolutionist. The Basmgliana is, 
perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for 
the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expres- 
sion, and the richness of its colouring. In the first 
canto, the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the 
body : — 

Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes. 
Rest thou in deep and undisturb'd repose; 
Till, at the last great day, from slumber's bed. 
Heaven's trumpet-summons shall awake the dead. 

Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower. 
And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour; 
Nor let the wand'rer, passing o'er thee, breathe 
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. 

Sleep thou in peace ! beyond the funeral pyre, 
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire, 
And 'midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore. 
Where mercy's home hath been from days of yore. 

Thus, to its earthly form, the spirit cried. 
Then turn'd to follow its celestial guide. 
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, 
A ling'ring step, and oft-reverted eye — 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 293 

As when a child's reluctant feet obev 

Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play. 

Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast. 
When from th' eternal city's towers they pass'd, 
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, 
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, 
Lo ! where a cherub-form sublimely tower'd. 
But dreadful in his glory ! sternly lowered 
Wrath in his kingly aspect : One he seem'd 
Of the bright seven, w^hose dazzling splendour beam'd 
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven. 
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given 
To the wrapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire 
Seem'd his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire, 
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, 
A comet's glare, presaging woe and blood. 
He waved his sword ; its red, terrific light, 
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night. 
While his left hand sustain'd a shield so vast. 
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast 
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume 
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom 
O'er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar ; 
And w^hile, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar, 
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest. 
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, 
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high 
Breaks not their calm and proud security. 

In the Second Canto, Basville enters Paris with his 
angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution 
of Louis XVI. 



294 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies 
Look'd fraught with omens, as to harmonize 
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round 
Not a leaf whispered — and the only sound 
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan 
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone. 
As if a storm within the woodland bowers 
Were gathering. On they moved — and lo ! the 

towers 
Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; 
And all reveaPd, expanding on their view. 
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes — 
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! 

* # * * * 

In the dark mantle of a cloud array'd, 
Viewless and hush'd, the angel and the shade 
Enter'd that evil city. Onward pass'd 
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast 
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes 
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. 
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw 
That altered aspect, and, in breathless awe, 
Mark'd the strange silence round. The deep-toned 

swell 
Of life's full tide was hush*d ; the sacred bell. 
The clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled 
Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead 
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe. 
Enquiring glances, rumours v/hisper'd low. 
Questions half-utter'd, jealous looks that keep 
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 295 

That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, heard 
At intervals, in many a broken word — 
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press'd 
Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast; 
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, 
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, 
On their own thresholds striving to detain 
Their tierce impatient lords; but weak and vain 
Affection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour 
Of fate and fury — Love hath lost his power! 
For evil spirits are abroad, the air 
Breathes of their influence ; Druid phantoms there. 
Fired by that thirst for victims, which of old 
Raged in their bosoms, fierce and uncontroll'd, 
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimm'd the day. 
Blood, human blood, hath stain'd their vests and hair. 
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare. 
Scattering red showers around them ! flaming brands 
And serpent scourges in their restless hands 
Are wildly shaken ; others lift on high 
The steel, th' envenom'd bowl, and hurrying by 
With touch of fire, contagious fury dart 
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. 
Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrain'd no more, 
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour ; 
From every heart affrighted mercy flies. 
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. 
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street 
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet. 
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, 
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas 



296 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Heard at the dead of midnight ; or the moan 
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone 
Of the far thunder ! Then what feelings press'd, 
O wretched Basville ! on thy guilty breast ; 
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold 
Death's awful banner to the winds unfold ! 
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high, 
The dark impatience of the murderer's eye, 
Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good, 
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood 
Dragg'd to a felon's death ! Yet still his mien, 
'Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; 
And his step falters not. O, hearts unmoved ! 
Where have you borne your monarch 1 — He who 

loved — 
Loved you so well! — Behold! the sun grows pale. 
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil; 
The misty air is silent, as in dread. 
And the dim sky, wdth shadowy gloom o'erspread. 
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest. 
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest. 

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile 
The regal victim came ; and raised the while 
His patient glance, with such an aspect high. 
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty. 
That e'en th' assassins' hearts a moment shook 
Before the grandeur of that kingly look ; 
And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew'd. 
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. 



THR ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 297 

Like Him, who, breathing mercy till the last, 
Pray'd till the bitterness of death was past : 
E'en for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour 
When his soul yielded to affliction's power; 
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad — 
** Hast thou forsaken me, mv God! mv God?" 
E'en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, 
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes — 
" To thee my spirit 1 commend," he cried ; 
"And my lost people, Father! be their guide!" 
****** 

But the sharp steel descends — the blow is given, 
i\nd answer'd by a thunder-peal from heaven; 
Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terrors owns. 
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 

Th z Ahestis of Alfteri is said to have been the 
last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a 
remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his 
former works present so few examples. It would 
appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which 
the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated 
during the latter years of his life, had impressed its 
whole character on this work, as a record of that 
domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length 
found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings 



298 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

bear witness to that " fever at the core," that burn- 
ing impatience of restraint, and those incessant and 
un tameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, 
by which his youth was consumed ; but the poetry 
of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which 
has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the 
bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the 
piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a 
moment allowed to languish, nor does the conjugal 
affection, which forms the main-spring of the action, 
ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metas- 
tasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its 
lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, 
powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and 
tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of 
Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or 
bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the 
limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity 
and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur 
on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the 
best illustration of this analogy. 

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces 
to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon 
which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son 
may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the 
author, even in his most celebrated productions. It 
is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can 
be transferred into a translation, as the severity of a 
style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it 
dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon 
the melody of the original language. 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 299 

ACT I.— Scene II. 
Alcestis, Pheres. 

Ale. Weep thou no more : O ! monarch, dry thy 
tears, 
For know, he shall not die ; not now shall Fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. 

Phe. What mean thy words ? 
Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope? 

Ale. Yes! hope for thee — hope, by the voice an- 
nounced 
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
For thee to hear from mine. 

Phe. But say! oh! say. 
Shall then my son be spared ? 

Ale. He shall, to thee. 
Thus hath Apollo said — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle — be thou secure. 

Phe. O sounds of joy ! He lives ! 

Ale. But not for this, 
Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy 
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. 

Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of 
death 
Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words ? What mean'st thou ? Gracious 

Heaven ! 
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear'st 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 



300 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Transport and life in that glad oracle 

To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged 

With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, 

To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, 

Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt 

In troubled silence — speak! oh, speak! 

Ale. The gods 
Themselves have limitations to their power 
Impassable, eternal — and their will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate: 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

Phe. In thy looks 
There is expression, more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what 

terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us, 
The rescued life of him thv soul adores? 

Ale. O father ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear. 
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill'd 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; 
And since too soon, too well it must be known. 
Hear it from me. 

Phe. Throughout my curdling veins 
Runs a cold, death-like horror; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, 
O fair and high-soul'd consort of my son ! 
More than a daughter; and thine infant race, 
The cherish'd hope and glory of my age ; 
And, unimpair'd by time, within my breast. 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 301 

High, holy, and unalterable love 

For her, the partner of my cares and joys, 

Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, 

In what suspense, what agony of fear, 

I wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see 

Thy lips arc fraught with fatal auguries. 

To some one of my race. 

Ale. Death hath his rights. 
Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand. 
Already seized, the noble victim lay. 
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime 
And noonday, struck: — Admetus, the revered. 
The bless'd, the loved, by all who own'd his sway — 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his, — and oh! what need to add. 
How much by his Alcestis? — Such was he. 
Already in th' unsparing grasp of death 
Withering,-^ a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatch'd him, and another in his stead, 
Though not an equal — (who can equal him?) 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. 
Another, of his lineage or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To the dark realm of Orcus in Ids place, 
Who thus alone is saved. 

Phe. What do I hear? 
Woe to us, woe! — what victim? — who shall be 
Accepted in his stead? 

Ale. The dread exchange 
E'en now, O father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 

Vol. IL 26 



302 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

For whom 'tis freely offer'd. Nor wilt thou, 
O mighty goddess of th' infernal shades ! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor. 
Disdain the victim. 

Phe. All prepared the prey ! 
And to our blood allied! O Heaven! — and yet 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Ate. Yes ! thus I said, 
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe 
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard 
Than those his death had caused. — With some few 

tears, 
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy. 
E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, 
The victim shall be honour'd who resign'd 
Life for Admetus. — Would'st thou know the prey. 
The vow'd, the willing, the devoted one, 
Offer'd and hallow'd to th' infernal gods, 
Father! — 'tis L 

Phe. What hast thou done ? O Heaven 1 
What hast thou done? — And think'st thou he is saved 
By such a compact? — Think'st thou he can live 
Bereft of thee? — Of thee, his light of life, 
His very soul! — Of thee, beloved far more 
Than his loved parents — than his children more — 
More than himself? — Oh ! no, it shall not be ! 
Thou perish, O Alcestis ! in the flower 
Of thy young beauty ! — perish, and destroy 
Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, 
Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 303 

Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. 
And think'st thou not of those whose tender years 
Demand thy care? — thy children! think of them! 
O thou, the source of each domestic joy, 
Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, 
His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die 
While I can die for thee! — Me, me alone. 
The oracle demands — a wither'd stem. 
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. 
My race is run — the fulness of my years. 
The faded hopes of age, and all the love 
Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart. 
And the fond pity, half with w^onder blent. 
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts 
So richly is endow'd; — all, all unite 
To grave in adamant the just decree, 
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! 
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis — live ! 
Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass 
An aged sire's devotedness. 

Ale. I know 
Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 
Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words. 
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
They may not be withstood. 

Phe. What canst thou say 
Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save 
Him who with thee would perish; — to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Ale, Stay, stay thee! 'tis too late. 



304 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms, 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of the awful right 
That vow hath won. 



Yes! thou may'st weep my fate: 
Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endeared 
My life by every tie — the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead 
A guest more honour'd. 

*^ J& ^ ^U jb 

TP vp ■#P "*? ^r 

In thy presence here 
Again I utter the tremendous vow, 
Now more than half fulfiU'd. I feel, I know 
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins 
Th' insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard — he calls. 
He summons me away — and thou art saved, 
O my Admetus ! 

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, 
with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete 
the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine's 
statue. The following scene ensues between her and 
Admetus. 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 305 

Ale, Here, O my faithful handmnids ! at the feet 
Of Proserpine's dread image spread my couch, 
For I myself e*en now must offer here 
The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, 
My children ! seek your sire. Behold him there, 
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins 
Health's genial current flows once more, as free 
As in his brightest days : and he shall live — 
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, 
And with your innocent encircling arms 
Twine round him fondly. 

Eum. Can it be indeed. 
Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus 
Restored ? What joy is ours ! 

Adm. There is no joy ! 
Speak not of joy ! away, away ! my grief 
Is wild and desperate ; cling to me no more ! 
I know not of affection, and I feel 
No more a father. 

Eum. Oh ! what words are these ? 
Are we no more thy children ? Are we not 
Thine own ? Sweet sister ! twine around his neck 
More close ; he must return the fond embrace. 

Adm. O children ! O my children ! to my soul 
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts 
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more 
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound 
Of your soft accents but too well recalls 
The voice which was the music of my life. 
Alcestis! my Alcestis ! — was she not 
Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e'er 
Adored like her before? Yet this is she, 
26* 



306 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

The cold of heart, th' ungrateful, who hath left 
Her husband and her infants ! This is she, 

my deserted children ! who at once 
Bereaves you of your parents. 

Ale, Woe is me ! 

1 hear the bitter and reproachful cries 

Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 
O ! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, 
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps 
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, 
That he may hear and see me. 

Adm. Is it thou? 
And do I see thee still 1 and com'st thou thus 
To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear 
The dying accents thus ? Alas ! return 
To thy sad couch, return ! 'tis meet for me 
There by thy side for ever to remain. 

Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet for 
thee — 

Adin. O voice ! O looks of death ! are these, are 
these, 
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, 
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life 
Of my fond soul ? Alas ! how faint a ray 
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once. 
Upon my drooping brow ! How heavily 
With what a weight of death thy languid voice 
Sinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. 
Alcestis! thou art dying — and for me! 

^ T^ % ^ 

Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports 

With its last power, supports my sinking head. 



THE ALCESTIS OP ALFIERI. 307 

E'en now, while death is on thee ! Oh ! the touch 
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart : 
I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, 
The image of yon ruthless Deity, 
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death. 
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. 

vt" V? vf* ^ 

Vain is each obstacle — In vain the gods 
Themselves would check my fury — I am lord 
Of my own days — and thus I swear — 

Ale. Yes ! swear 
Admetus ! for thy children to sustain 
The load of life. All other impious vows. 
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will 
Of those who rule on high, might'st dare to form 
Within thy breast ; thy lip, by them enchain'd, 
Would vainly seek to utter. — See'st thou not. 
It is from them the inspiration flows. 
Which in my language breathes? They lend me 

power. 
They bid me through thy strengthen'd soul transfuse 
High courage, noble constancy. Submit, 
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm; 
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme 
To which I now approach, from whom but thee 
Should comfort be derived ? Afflict me not. 
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death, 
O faithful and beloved, support me still ! 



The choruses with which this tragedy is inter- 
spersed, are distinguished for their melody and clas- 



308 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

sic beauty. The following translation will give our 
readers a faint idea of the one by which the third 
act is concluded. 

Ale. My children ! all is finish'd. Now, farewell ! 
To thy fond care, O Pheres ! I commit 
My widow 'd lord : forsake him not. 

Eum. Alas ! 
Sweet mother ! wilt thou leave us ? from thy side 
Are we for ever parted? 

Phe. Tears forbid 
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, 
More lifeless than the dying victim, see 
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet. 
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight 
Of his Alcestis. 

Ale. O my handmaids ! still 
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose 
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs 
When death's last pang is o'er. 

Chorus. 

Alas ! how weak 
Her struggling voice ! that last keen pang is near. 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs; let tears unheard be shed. 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast. 
The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 309 

And thou assistance lend 

To close the languid eye, 
Still beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas ! how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death ! death ! thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fleet, 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart, 
Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

Chorus of Admetus. 

'T is not enough, oh no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 

Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below. 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears. 



310 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Whom fate controls with adamantine sway? 

O ruler of the spheres ! 
Jove ! Jove ! enthroned immortally on high. 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes 
Him, who nor footstep moves nor lifts his eye 

But as a child, which only knows 

Its father to revere. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA; 

A TRAGEDY. 
BY ALESSANDRO MANZONI. 

Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in Car- 
magnola, from whence his nom de guerre was derived, 
was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a boy, and 
employed in the care of flocks and herds, the lofty 
character of his countenance was observed by a sol- 
dier of fortune, who invited the youth to forsake his 
rustic occupations, and accompany him to the busier 
scenes of the camp. His persuasions were successful, 
and Francesco entered with him into the service of 
Facino Cane, Lord of Alessandria. At the time when 
Facino died, leaving fourteen cities acquired by con- 
quest to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di 
Carmagnola was amongst the most distinguished of his 
captains. Beatrice afterwards marrying Philip Vis- 
conti, Duke of Milan (who rewarded her by an igno- 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 311 

minious death for the regal dowry she had conferred 
upon him), Carmagnola entered his army at the same 
time, and having, by his eminent services, firmly 
established the tottering power of that prince, received 
from him the title of Count, and was placed at the 
head of all his forces. The natural caprice and 
ingratitude of Philip's disposition, however, at length 
prevailed, and Carmagnola, disgusted with the evident 
proof of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, 
left his service and his terrritories, and after a variety 
of adventures, took refuge in Venice. Thither the 
treachery of the Duke pursued him, and emissaries 
were employed to procure his assassination. The 
plot, however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was 
elected captain-general of the Venetian armies, during 
the league formed by that republic against the Duke 
of Milan. The war was at first carried on with much 
spirit and success, and the battle of Maclodio, gained 
by Carmagnola, was one of the most important and 
decisive actions of those times. The night after the 
combat, the victorious soldiers gave liberty to almost 
all their prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made 
a complaint on this subject to the Count, he enquired 
what was become of the captives ; and upon being 
informed that all, except four hundred, had been set 
free, he gave orders that the remaining ones also 
should be released immediately, according to the cus- 
tom which prevailed amongst the armies of those days, 
the object of which was to prevent a speedy termi- 
nation of the war. This proceeding of Carmagnola's 
occasioned much distrust and irritation in the minds 
6f the Venetian rulers, and their displeasure was 



312 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

increased when the armada of the repubUc, com- 
manded by II Trevisani, was defeated upon the Po, 
without any attempt in its favour having been made 
by the Count. The faikire of their attempt upon 
Cremona was also imputed to him as a crime, and the 
Senate, resolving to free themselves from a powerful 
chief, now become an object of suspicion, after many 
deliberations on the best method of carrying their 
designs into effect, at length determined to invite him 
to Venice, under pretence of consulting him on their 
negotiations for peace. He obeyed their summons 
without hesitation or mistrust, and was every where 
received with extraordinary honours during the course 
of his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before 
he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were sent 
to meet him, by whom he was escorted to St. Mark's 
Place. When he v^^as introduced into the ducal 
palace, his attendants were dismissed, and informed 
that he would be in private with the Doge for a con- 
siderable time. He was arrested in the palace, then 
examined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, 
which a wound he had received in the service of the 
Republic rendered still more agonizing, and condemned 
to death. On the 5th May, 1432, he was conducted 
to execution, with his mouth gagged, and beheaded 
between the two columns of St. Mark's Place. With 
regard to the innocence or guilt of this distinguished 
character, there exists no authentic information. The 
author of the tragedy, which we are about to analyse, 
has chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, and 
probability at least is on this side. It is possible, that 
the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior, accustomed to 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 313 

command, and impatient of controls, might have been 
the principal cause of offence to the Venetians; or 
perhaps their jealousy was excited by his increasing 
power over the minds of an obedient army ; and, not 
considering it expedient to displace him, they resolved 
upon his destruction. 

This tragedy, which is formed upon the model of 
the English and German drama, comprises the history 
of Carmagnola's life, from the day on which he was 
made commander of the Venetian armies to that of 
his execution, thus embracing a period of about seven 
years. The extracts we are about to present to our 
readers, will enable them to form their own opinion 
of a piece which has excited so much attention in 
Italy. The first act opens in Venice, in the hall of the 
Senate. The Doge proposes that the Count di Car- 
magnola should be consulted on the projected league 
between the Republic and the Florentines, against the 
Duke of Milan. To this all agree ; and the Count is 
introduced. He begins by justifying his conduct from 
the imputations to which it might be liable, in conse- 
quence of his appearing as the enemy of the Prince 
whom he had so recently served: — 

He cast me down 



From the high place my blood had dearly won, 
And when I sought his presence, to appeal 
For justice there, 'twas vain! my foes had form'd 
Around his throne a barrier ; e'en my life 
Became the mark of hatred, but in this 
Their hopes have fail'd — I gave them not the time. 
My life ! — I stand prepared to yield it up 
Vol. H. 27 



314 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

On the proud field, and in some noble cause 
For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey. 
Not to be caught ignobly in the toils 
Of those I scorn. I left riim, and obtained 
With you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here 
His snares were cast around me. Now all ties 
Are broke between us; to an open foe. 
An open foe I come. 

He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, 
leaving the senate engaged in deliberation. War is 
resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The 
fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. 
His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more 
that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be 
traced, without difficulty, to the celebrated monologue 
of Hamlet. 

A leader — or a fugitive! — to drag 

Slow years along in idle vacancy. 

As a worn veteran living on the fame 

Of former deeds : to offer humble prayers 

And blessings for protection — owing all 

Yet left me of existence to the might 

Of other swords, dependent on some arm 

W^hich soon may cast me off — or on the field 

To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life 

Rush proudly through my veins — to hail again 

My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice 

To wake! to rule! to conquer! — Which must be 

My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace 

Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cHng 

Still poorly to ignoble safety here, 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 315 

Secluded as a homicide, who cowers 

Within a temple's precincts? Shall not he 

Who made a kingdom's fate, control his own? 

Is there not one among the many lords 

Of this divided Italy — not one 

With soul enough to envy that bright crown 

Encircling Philip's head ? And know they not 

'Twas won by me from many a tyrant's grasp, 

Snatch'd by my hand, and placed upon the brow 

Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns 

Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize 

On him who best shall call the prowess forth 

Which slumbers in my arm? 

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now 
arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved 
upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the 
armies, at the same time advising him to act with 
caution towards his enemies in the Republic. 

Car. Think'st thou I know not whom to deem 
my foes ? 
Ay, I could number all. 

Mar. And know'st thou, too. 
What fault hath made them such? — 'Tis, that thou 

art 
So high above them; 'tis, that thy disdain 
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one 
Hath done thee wrong ; but who, when so resolved. 
Finds not his time to injure? — In thy thoughts. 
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs ; 
But they remember thee. The high in soul 



31G ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart 
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not. 
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. 
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul 
Revolts indignantly — thou know'st it well; 
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet 
For the most lofty nature, — there is power 
Of winning meaner minds, without descent 
From the high spirit's glorious eminence, — 
And would'st thou seek that magic, it were thine. 

The first scene of the second act represents part 
of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodio. Mala- 
testi, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a Condot- 
tiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon the 
state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to 
give battle, Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They 
are joined by Sforza and Fortebraccio, who are impa- 
tient for action, and Torello, who endeavours to con- 
vince them of its inexpediency. 

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul 
Which fires each soldier's eye? 

Tor. I mark'd it well. 
I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice 
Of Hope and Courage, and I turn'd aside. 
That on my brow the warrior might not read 
Th* involuntary thought, whose sudden gloom 
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought. 
That this vain semblance of delusive joy 
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought 
On wasted valour doom'd to perish here 
# * # * * 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 317 

For these — what boots it to disguise the truth? — 
These are no wars in which, for all things loved. 
And precious, and revered — for all the ties 
Clinging around the heart — for those whose smile 
Makes home so lovely — for his native land. 
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights ! 
These are no w^ars in which the chieftain's aim 
Is but to station his devoted bands. 
And theirs, thus fix'd — to die! It is our fate 
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe 
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts 
They rush where Victory smiling waves them on ; 
But if delay'd, if between flight and death, 
Pausing they stand — is there no cause to doubt 
What choice were theirs? And but too well our 

hearts 
That choice might here foresee. Oh ! evil times. 
When for the leader, care augments, the more 
Bright glory fades away! — Yet, once again, 
This is no field for us. 

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack 
the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of the second 
act represent the tent of the Count in the Venetian 
camp, and his preparations for battle. And here a 
magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in 
which the battle is described, and its fatal effects 
lamented, with all the feeling of a patriot and a Chris- 
tian. It appears to us, however, that this ode, hymn, 
or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking as its 
effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a 
much less powerful impression in the situation it occu- 
27* 



318 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

pies at present. It is even necessary, in order to 
appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be re- 
perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The 
transition is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic 
action, in which the characters are represented as 
clothed with existence, and passing before us with all 
their contending motives and feelings laid open to our 
inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric 
piece, where the author's imagination expatiates 
alone. The poet may have been led into this error 
by a definition of Schlegel's, who, speaking of the 
Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, that *' the cho- 
rus is to be considered as a personification of the moral 
thoughts inspired by the action — as the organ of the 
poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human 
race. The chorus, in short, is the ideal spectator." 

But the fact was not exactly thus : The Greek cho- 
rus was composed of real characters, and expressed 
the sentiments of the people before whose eyes the 
action was imagined to be passing; thus the true 
spectator, after witnessing in representation the tri- 
umphs or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from 
the chorus the idea supposed to be entertained on the 
subject by the more enlightened part of the multitude. 
If the author, availing himself of his talent for lyric 
poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the 
subject, had brought his chorus into action, intro- 
ducing, for example, a veteran looking down upon the 
battle from an eminence, and describing its vicissi- 
tudes to the persons below, with whom he might inter- 
change a variety of national and moral reflections, it 
appears to us that the dramatic effect would have 



THR CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 319 

been considerably heightened, and the assertion that 
the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system 
of the modern drama, possibly disproved. We shall 
present our readers with the entire chorus of which 
we have spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and 
one to which the following title would be much more 
appropriate. 

The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo), an Ode, 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's sound, 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, 
Hollow and deep — and banners, all around, 
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies; 
Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine. 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes! 
Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the fight, 
And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows ! 
Oh ! who are these ? What stranger in his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose? 
What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save 
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 

One race, alas ! these foes — one kindred race. 
Were born and rear'd the same fair scenes among! 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each face 
That brotherhood reveals.; — one common tongue 



320 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Dwells on their lips — the earth on which we trace 
Their heart's blood — is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land. 
Circled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian hand. 

O grief and horror ! who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield? 
What cause unhallow'd and accursed, declare. 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? 
Think'st thou they know ? — they but inflict and share 
Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd ! 
— Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, 
With him they strive, — they fall — and ask not why. 

But are there none who love them? Have they none — 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between. 
And win with tears the husband and the son 
Back to his home, from this polluted scene ? 
And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is done. 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene. 
Thoughts of the tomb ; why cannot they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age ? 

Ask not! — the peasant at his cabin-door 
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down o'er fields he hath not ploughed. 
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd. 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain. 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 



THE CARMAGNOLI OF MANZONI. 321 

There may'st thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze 
Fix'd on his mother's lips, intent to know 
By names of insult, those, whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow. 
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Woe to the victors and the vanquished, woe ! 
The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain ; 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo ! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain. 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air, 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquish'd, in their wild despair, 
Chased, sever'd, scatter'd — o'er the ample ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, 
Burst on their flight — and hark ! the deepening sound 
Of fierce pursuit! — still nearer and more near, 
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear. 

The day is won! — they fall — disarm'd they yield. 
Low at the conqueror's (eet all suppliant lying! 
'Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, 
Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying ? 



322 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Haste ! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying. 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidings of the day. 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 

eager multitudes ! around him pressing 'i 

Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams. 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing ! 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omen'd herald comes. 
And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless- 
ing?— 
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold, — 
Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 

1 hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry ! 

They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains. 

E'en now the homicides assail the sky 

With paeans, which indignant Heaven disdains ! — 

But from the soaring Alps the stranger's eye 

Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains. 

And, with the cruel rapture of a foe. 

Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below. 

Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 
Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joy suspend- 
ing : 
Th* invader comes, your banners raise anew, 
Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ! 
Victors! why pause ye? — Are ye weak and few? — • 
Ay ! such he deem'd you, and for this descending. 
He waits you on the field ye know too well. 
The same red war-field where your brethren fell. 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 323 

O thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 
In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won, 
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
Too narrow still for each contending son ; 
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career 
Parting thy spoils ! Thy chastening is begun ! 
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd sit proudly at 
thy board. 

Are these infatuate too? — Oh! who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest ? 
The wrong'd, the vanquish'd, suffer not alone. 
Brief is that joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown. 
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his haughty 

crest. 
Well hath it mark'd him — and decreed the hour, 
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power. 

Are we not creatures of one hand divine, 
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born? 
Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine. 
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should twine, 
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn I 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth. 
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 

The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of 
the Count, is composed of long discourses between 
Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these 
requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory. 



324 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he 
will not leave the field until he has gained possession 
of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that 
the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their 
prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established 
military custom ; and, sending for the remaining four 
hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. 
This act, which terminates with the suspicious obser- 
vations of the envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is 
rather barren of interest, though the episode of the 
younger Pergola, v^'hich we shall lay before our read- 
ers, is happily imagined. 

As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes 
the younger Pergola, and stops him. 

Car, Thou art not, youth ! 
One to be number'd with the vulgar crowd. 
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak 
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest 
Thou minglest, and art silent ! 

Per. Silence best, 
O chief! befits the vanquish'd. 

Car. Bearing up 
Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved 
Worthy a better star. Thy name? 

Per. 'Tis one 
Whose heritage doth impose no common task 
On him that bears it. One, which to adorn 
With brighter blazonry were hard emprize. 
My name is Pergola. 

Car. And art thou then 
That warrior's son? 

Per, I am. 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 325 

Car. Approach ! embrace 
Thy father's early friend ! What thou art now 
1 was, when first we met. Oh ! thou dost bring 
Back on my heart remembrance of the days, 
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days 
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou ! 
My dawn, 'tis true, with brighter omens smiled, 
But still fair Fortune's glorious promises 
Are for the brave, and though delay'd awhile, 
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute 
Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee 
I ask'd it, yet my heart is well assured 
He counsell'd not this battle. 

Pe7\ Oh ! he gave 
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words 
Were spoken to the winds. 

Car. Lament thou not. 
Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest 
Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood 
Fix'd at his post of peril, hath begun 
A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me, 
I will restore thy sword. 

The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of 
the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the jealous and 
complicated policy of that Republic, and the despotic 
authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed 
in many of the scenes. 

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in 
the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is con- 
sulted by the Doge on the terms of peace offered by 
the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with 

Vol, n. — -^28 



S26 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

disdain, and after various insults he is accused of 
treason. His astonishment and indignation at this 
unexpected charge are expressed with all the warmth 
and simplicity of innocence. 

Car. A traitor! I! — that name of infamy 
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear 
Who best deserves such meed — it is not mine. 
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit. 
For such my part is here ; yet would I not 
Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. 
A traitor! — 1 retrace in thought the time, 
When for your cause 1 fought; 'tis all one path 
Strew'd o'er with flowers. Point out the day on which 
A traitor's deeds were mine ; the day which pass'd 
Unmark'd by thanks, and praise, and promises 
Of high reward ! What more ? Behold me here ! 
And when I came to seeming honour calPd, 
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice 
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith — 
Of trusting faith! — Oh, no! Doth he who comes 
Th' invited guest of friendship, dream of faith? 
I came to be ensnared ! Well ! it is done. 
And be it so ! but since deceitful hate 
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, 
Praise be to Heaven ! an open field at least 
Is spread before us. Now 'tis yours to speak, 
Mine to defend my cause ; declare ye then 
My treasons ! 

Doge. By the secret college soon 
All shall be told thee. 

Car, I appeal not there. 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 327 

What I have done for you hath all been done 
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not 
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds 
Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose 
To be mine arbiters; my proud defence 
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. 

Doge. The time for choice is past. 

Car. What ! Is there force 
Employ 'd against me? — Guards! {raising his voice,) 

Doge. They are not nigh. 
Soldiers ! {enter armed men.) 
Thy guards are these. 

Car. I am betray'd ! 

Doge. 'T was then a thought of wisdom to disperse 
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem'd 
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, 
Might prove a rebel too. 

Ca7\ E'en as ye list, 
Now be it yours to charge me. 

Doge. Bear him hence, 
Before the secret dftlege. 

Car. Hear me yet 
One moment first. That ye have doom'd my death 
I well perceive; but with that death ye doom 
Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers 
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats 
The banner of the Lion, in its pride 
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know 
/ bore it thus to empire. Here, 'tis true. 
No v^oice will speak men's thoughts; but far beyond 
The limits of your sway, in other scenes. 
Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach'd, 



328 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds, 
And your reward, will live in chronicles 
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect 
Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need 
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours? 
Forget not, though your captive now I stand, 
I was not born your subject. No ! my birth 
Was 'midst a warlike people, one in soul. 
And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem 
The honour of each citizen its own. 
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard? 
There is some treachery here. Our common foes 
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know 
I have been faithful still. There yet is time. 

Doge. The time is past. When thou didst meditate 
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy 
Those destined to chastise it, then the hour 
Of foresight should have been. 

Car. O mean in soul ! 
And dost thou dare to think a^arrior's breast 
For worthless life can trembler Thou shalt soon 
Learn how to die. Go ! When the hour of fate 
On thy vile couch o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet 
Its summons with far other mien than such 
As I shall bear to ignominious death. 

Scene II. — The House q/" Carmagnola. 

Antonietta, Matilda. 

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet 
My father comes not ! 

Ant. Ah! thou hast not learn'd 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 329 

By sad experience, with how slow a pace 

Joys ever come; expected long, and oft 

Deceiving expectation ! while the steps 

Of grief o'ertake us, ere we dream them nigh. 

But night is past, the long and lingering hours 

Of hope deferr'd are o'er, and those of bliss 

Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, 

And he is with us. E'en from this delay 

I augur well. A council held so long 

Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, 

Perhaps for years our own. 

Mat. O mother ! thus 
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, 
And days in all the sickness of suspense 
Our anxious love hath pass'd. It is full time 
That each sad moment, at each rum.our'd tale. 
Each idle murmur of the people's voice, 
We should not longer tremble, that no more 
This thought should haunt our souls — E'en now, 

perchance, 
He for whom thus our hearts are yearning — dies! 

Ant. Oh ! fearful thought ! — but vain and distant 
now ! 
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. 
Hast thou forgot the day, when proudly led 
In triumph 'midst the noble and the brave. 
Thy glorious father to the temple bore 
The banners won in battle from his foes ? 

Mat. A day to be remember'd ! 

Ant. By his side 
Each seem'd inferior. Every breath of air 
Sweird with his echoing name; and we, the while, 
28* 



330 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Stationed on high and severed from the throng. 
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, 
While with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelmM, 
Our hearts beat high, and whisper'd — " We are his." 

Mat. Moments of joy ! 

Jnt. What have we done, my child, 
To merit such ? Heaven, for so high a fate. 
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow 
Inscribed a lofty name, a name so bright. 
That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whatever 
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark 
For envy is the glory of our lot ! 
And we should weigh its joys against these hours 
Of fear and sorrow. 

Mat. They are past e'en now. 
Hark! 'twas the sound of oars! — it swells — 'tis 

hush'd ! 
The gates unclose — O mother! I behold 
A warrior clad in mail — he comes, 'tis he! 

Ant. Whom should it be if not himself? — my 
husband ! {She comes forward.) 

{Enter Gonzaga and others.) 

Ant. Gonzaga ! — Where is he we look'd for ? 
Where ? 
Thou answerest not ! — O heaven ! thy looks are 

fraught 
With prophecies of woe ! 

Gon. Alas ! too true 
The omens they reveal ! 
Mat, Of woe to whom ! 



THE CARMAGNOLA OP MANZONI. 331 

Gon. Oh ! why hath such a task of bitterness 
Fallen to my lot ? 

Ant. Thou would'st be pitiful, 
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; 
Speak ! I adjure thee, in the name of God ! 
Where is mv husband? 

Gon. Heaven sustain your souls 
With fortitude to bear the tale! — my chief 

Mat. Is he return'd unto the field? 

Gon. Alas ! 
Thither the warrior shall return no more. 
The senate's wrath is on him. He is now 
A prisoner ! 

Ant. He is a prisoner! — and for what? 

Gon. He is accused of treason. 

Mat. Treason! He 
A traitor ! — Oh ! my father ! 

Ant. Haste ! proceed, 
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. 
Say, what shall be his sentence ? 

Gon. From my lips 
It shall not be reveal'd. 

Ant. Oh ! he is slain ! 

Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix'd. 

Ant. He lives ! 
Weep not, my daughter! 'tis the time to act. 
For pity's sake, Gonzaga, be thou not 
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee 
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. 
He was thy friend — Ah! haste, then, be our guide; 
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child. 
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left 



332 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves 

Are husbands, they are fathers ! When they sign'd 

The fearful sentence, they remember'd not 

He was a father, and a husband too. 

But when their eyes behold the agony 

One w^ord of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt. 

They will, they must revoke it. Oh ! the sight 

Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! 

Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdain'd 

To vindicate his deeds, or to recall 

His triumphs won for them. It is for us 

To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know 

That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, 

And we will pray. 

Gon. Oh Heaven ! that I could leave 
Your hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, 
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt 
Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis lanch'd 
Is veil'd in clouds. There is one comfort still. 
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, 
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. 
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. 
Oh ! fearful is the trial, but the God 
Of mourners will be with you. 

Mat. Is there not 
One hope? 

£nt. Alas ! my child ! 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 333 

Scene IV. — A Prison. 

Carmagnola. 

They niust have heard it now. — Oh! that at least 
I might have died far from them ! Though their hearts 
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, 
The solemn hour of Nature's parting pangs. 
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, 
And we must drain its draught of bitterness 
Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields ; 
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms ! 

proud delights of danger ! Battle cries. 
And thou, my war-steed ! and ye trumpet notes 
Kindling the soul ! 'Midst your tumultuous joys 
Death seem'd all beautiful. — And must I then, 
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate 

Be dragg'd, e'en as a felon, on the winds 
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints? 
And Marco! hath he not betray 'd me too? 
Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul 
Before I die!— But no! What boots it now 
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns 
To linger where my footstep may not tread? 
Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 

1 too have proved such vain and impious joys. 
And know their value now. But oh ! again 
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last. 
Last accents of their voices ! By those arms 
Once more to be encircled, and from thence 

To tear myself for ever! — Hark! they come! — 
O God of Mercy, from thy throne look down 
In pity on their woes ! 



334 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Scene V. 
Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and Carmagnola. 

Ant, My husband ! 

Mat. Oh! my father! 

Ant. Is it thus 
That thou returnest? and is this the hour 
Desired so long? 

Car. O ye afflicted ones ! 
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. 
Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, 
And calmly wait his time. For you alone 
My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then. 
Deprive me of its aid? — When the Most High 
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows 
The courage to sustain them. Oh ! let yours 
Equal your sorrows ! Let us yet tind joy 
In this embrace, 'tis still a gift of Heaven. 
Thou weep'st, my child ! and thou, beloved wife I 
Ah ! when I made thee mine, thy days flow'd on 
In peace and gladness; I united thee 
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought 
Embitters death. Oh! that I had not seen 
The woes I cause thee ! 

Ant. Husband of my youth ! 
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, 
Read thou my heart 1 the pangs of death are there, 
And yet e'en now — I would not but be thine. 

Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee ; 
Oh ! make me not too deeply feel it now. 

Mat. The homicides ! 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 335 

Car. No, sweet Matilda, no! 
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise 
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb 
These moments — they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs 
Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, 
That, e'en 'midst all the fulness of our woe, 
High, holy joy remains. — Death! death! — our foes, 
Our most relentless foes, can only speed 
Th' inevitable hour. Oh ! man hath not 
Invented death for man ; it would be then 
Madd'ning and insupportable ; from Heaven 
'Tis sent, and Heaven doth temper all its pangs 
With such blest comfort, as no mortal power 
Can give or take away. My wife ! my child I 
Hear my last words — they wring your bosoms now 
With agony, but yet, some future day 
'Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! 
Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starr'd girl 
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, 
Conduct her to thy kindred, she is theirs. 
Of their own blood — and they so loved thee once! 
Then, to their foe united, thou becamest 
Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring 

sounds 
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. 
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return 
A mourner ; and the object of their hate 
Will be no more. — Oh! there is joy in death! — 
And thou, my flower! that 'midst the din of arms, 
W^ert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head 
Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage 
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart 



336 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. 

I feel thy burning tears upon my breast — 

I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim 

Pity from me, Matilda ? Oh ! thy sire 

Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st 

That the forsaken have a father still 

On high. Confide in him, and live to days 

Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee 

He surely destines. Wherefore hath he pour'd 

The torrent of affliction on thy youth, 

If to thy future years be not reserved 

All his benign compassion ? Live ! and soothe 

Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms 

Of no ignoble consort lead thee still! — 

Gonzaga ! take the hand which thou hast press'd 

Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts 

Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. 

Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith 

To guide and guard these mourners, till they join 

Their friends and kindred ? 

Gon. Rest assured, I will. 

Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, 
Thou to the field returnest, there for me 
Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died 
Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, 
Hast read my inmost thoughts — and know'st it well. 
Tell them I never, with a traitor's shame, 
Stain'd my bright sword. — Oh! never — I myself 
Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me 
When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, 
And banners proudly waving in the air, 
Think of thine ancient comrade ! And the day 



THE CARMAGNOLA OF MANZONI. 337 

Following the combat, when upon the field. 
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony 
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, 
With lifted hands, is offering for the slain 
His sacrifice to heaven; — forget me not! 
For I, too, hoped upon the battle plain 
E'en so to die. 

Ant, Have mercy on us. Heaven ! 
Car. My wife ! Matilda ! Now the hour is nigh, 
And we must part. — Farewell! 
Mat, No, father ! no I 

Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and 
then 
For pity's sake depart I 
Ant. No ! force alone 
Shall tear us hence. 

{A sound of arrns is heard.) 
Mat, Hark ! what dread sound ! 
Ant, Great God ! 

(The door is half opened, and armed men 
enter, the chief of ichom advances to 
the Count, His wife and daughter fall 
senseless.) 

Car. O God ! I thank thee. O most merciful ! 
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs 
Of this dread moment's conflict ! 

Thou, my friend. 
Assist them, bear them from this scene of Avoe, 
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose 
To meet the day — that nought is left to fear. 

Vol. II. 29 



338 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last 
act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in 
Italy, must be principally attributed to the boldness 
of the author in so completely emancipating himself 
from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity 
with which the tragic poets of that country have, in 
general, restricted themselves to those rules, has been 
sufficiently remarkable, to obtain, at least, temporary 
distinction for the courage of the writer who should 
attempt to violate them. Although this piece com- 
prises a period of several years, and that, too, in days 
so troubled and so " full of fate" — days in which the 
deepest passions and most powerful energies of the 
human mind were called into action by the strife of 
conflicting interests ; there is, nevertheless, as great a 
deficiency of incident, as if " to be born and die" 
made all the history of aspiring natures contending 
for supremacy. The character of the hero is por- 
trayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself 
in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and 
the interest excited for him only commences at the 
moment when it ought to have reached its climax. 
The merits of the piece may be summed up in the 
occasional energy of the language and dignity of the 
thoughts ; and the truth with which the spirit of the 
age is characterised, as well in the developement of 
that suspicious policy distinguishing the sj^stem of the 
Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery 
Condottieri, holding their councils of war, 

" Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 339 



CAIUS GRACCHUS, 

a tragedy. 
By Monti. 

This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest 
to the Artstodemo of the same author, is, nevertheless, 
distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such 
as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more 
general attention than it has hitherto received. Al- 
though the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, 
in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently 
preserved to give an impressive character to the 
piece ; yet those workings of passion and tenderness, 
without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and 
heroism unnatural, have not been (as in the trage- 
dies of Altieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly sup- 
pressed. 

The powerful character of the high-hearted Cor- 
nelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our 
ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman 
matron ; and the depth and sublimity of maternal 
affection more particularly belonging to the mother 
of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the 
softer and more womanish feelings, the intense anxie- 
ties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embo- 
died in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. 
The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are full 
of majestic eloquence, and the whole piece seems to 



340 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of 
freedom, whose immortaUzed struggles for ascendency 
give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the 
annals of the ancient republics. 

The tragedy opens w^ith the soliloquy of Caius 
Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, after 
having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, which 
Scipio had utterly demolished. 

Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night 

Hath spread her favouring shadows o'er thy path* 

And thou, be strong, my country ! for thy son 

Gracchus is with thee ! All is hush*d around, 

And in deep slumber ; from the cares of day. 

The worn plebeians rest. Oh ! good and true. 

And only Romans ! your repose is sweet. 

For toil hath given it zest; 'tis calm and pure, 

For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, 

My brother's murderers, ihe patricians, hold 

Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards. 

Or in dark midnight councils sentence me 

To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem 

Of the unlook'd for and tremendous foe 

So near at hand! — It is enough. I tread 

In safety my paternal threshold. — Yes! 

This is my own ! Oh mother ! oh my wife ! 

My child ! — I come to dry your tears. I come 

Strengthen'd by three dread furies. One is wrath, 

Fired by my country's wrongs; and one deep love, 

For those, my bosom's inmates; and the third — 

Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's blood ! 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 341 

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Ful- 
vius, his friend, with whose profligate character, and 
unprincipled designs, he is represented as unac- 
quainted. From the opening speech made by Ful- 
vius (before he is aware of the presence of Caius) 
to the slave by whom he is attended, it appears that 
he is just returned from the perpetration of some 
crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the 
second act. 

The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, 
by the obscure allusions to some act of signal, but 
secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the 
course of the ensuing discussion. 

Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears, 
But for high deeds. 

Caius. And we will make it such. 
But prove we first our strength. Declare, what 

friends 
(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain 
True to our cause ? 

Ful. Few, few, but valiant hearts! 

****** 
Oh ! what a change is here ! There was a time. 
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law 
To nations and their rulers ; in thy presence 
The senate trembled, and the citizens 
Flock'd round thee in deep reverence. Then a word, 
A look from Caius — a salute, a smile, 
Fill'd them with pride. Each sought to be the friend, 
The client, ay, the very slave, of him. 
The people's idol; and beholding them 
20* 



342 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself. 
Didst blush to see their vileness! — But thy fortune 
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt 
Into dim vapour, and the earthly god. 
So worshipp'd once, from his forsaken shrines, 
Down to the dust is hurl'd. 
Coins. And what of this? 
There is no power in Fortune to deprive 
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart 
As meets the storm exultingly ; a heart 
Whose stern delight it is to strive with fate, 
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible 
But because man is vile. A coward first 
Made her a deity. 

But say, what thoughts 
Are foster'd by the people ? Have they lost 
The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name 
Of Gracchus in their hearts — reveal the truth — 
Already number'd with forgotten things ? 

FuL A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now 
there. 
Borne on light pinion — such the people's love ! 
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults 
Are of their miseries ; and their feebleness 
Is to their woes proportion'd. Haply still 
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine, 
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute ; 
And the deep paleness of their timid mien. 
And eyes in fix'd despondence bent on earth. 
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name. 
Alone accuse them* They are hush'd, for now 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 343 

Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host 
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, 
And the patrician Romans. Yes ! and well 
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, 
For Rome is widow'd ! Distant wars engage 
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led. 
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart 
Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people. 
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, 
But yet are silent. 

Caius. I will make them heard. 
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice 
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came 
Prepared for all ; and as I track'd the deep 
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew 
Familiar in its musings. With a voice 
Of wrath, the loud winds fiercely swell'd ; the waves 
Mutter'd around ; Heaven flash'd in lightning forth. 
And the pale steersman trembled : I the while 
Stood on the tossing and bewilder'd bark. 
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds. 
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorbed 
In a far deeper storm ! Around my heart. 
Gathering in secret, then my spirit's powers 
Held council with themselves — and on my thoughts 
My country rose, — and I foresaw the snares. 
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, 
And my false friends, awaiting my return. 

•TP ^ vF w w 

Fulvius ! I wept ! but they were tears of rage I 
For I was wrought to frenzy, by the thought 



344 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

or my wrong'd country, and of him, that brother. 
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly cried 
" Vengeance ! '* — nor found it yet. 

Ful. It is fulfilPd. 

Caius. And how? 

FuL Thou shalt be told. 

Caius. Explain thy words? 

Ful. Then know — (incautious that I am!) 

Caius. Why thus 
Falters thy voice? Why speak'st thou not? 

FuL Forgive ! 
E'en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. 

Caius. No ! 
True friendship, never ! 

Caius afterwards enquires what part his brother- 
in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their 
enterprises. 

His high renown — 
The glorious deeds, whereby was earn'd his name 
Of second Africanus; and the blind. 
Deep reverence paid him by the people's hearts. 
Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still ; 
All this disturbs me : hardly will be won 
Our day of victory, if by him withstood. 

Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou fear'st. 
Then be at peace. 

Caius. I understand thee not. 

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste 
Our time and words. Soon will the morning break, 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 345 

Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return ; 
I fly to cheer them with the tidings. 

Caius. Stay ! 

FuL And wherefore ? 

Caius. To reveal thy meaning. 

FuL Peace ! 
I hear the sound of steps. 

This conversation is interrupted hy the entrance 
of Corneha, with the wife and child of Caius. They 
are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, 
by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent 
danger which menaces the family of her son from the 
fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following 
day, to abrogate the laws enacted b)'^ the Gracchi in 
favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of 
Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may 
appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained 
so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold 
of their abode, without ever having made an enquiry 
after their welfare ; but it would be somewhat unrea- 
sonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly 
in a tragedy) by the laws of nature. Before, how- 
ever, we are disposed to condemn the principles which 
seem to be laid down for the delineation of Roman 
character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the 
general habits of the people whose institutions gave 
birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the actions 
of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was 
fostered to enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must 
have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even 
their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without compro- 



346 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

mising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered 
them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to 
he their official garb, and has stamped their features 
with the genera] attributes of human nature, without 
effiicing the impress which distinguished " the men 
of iron," from the nations who " stood still before 
them." 

The first act concludes with the parting of Caius 
and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion, Cornelia having 
accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her daugh- 
ter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most 
atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause 
of liberty. 

Of liberty 
What speak'st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no 

shame — 
No virtue — and thy boast is, to be free! 
Oh ! zeal for liberty ! eternal mask 
Assumed by every crime ! 

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is an- 
nounced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of 
Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a 
rumour of his having perished by assassination. The 
mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation 
of Cornelia, immediately recur to the mind of Caius. 
The following scene, in which his vehement emotion 
and high sense of honour, are well contrasted with 
the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully 
wrought up. 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 347 

Cuius. Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius 
rush, 
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart ! 

(Fulvius enters.) 
Thou com'st in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend ! 
Scipio lies murder'd on his bed of death! — 
Who slew him ? 

FuL Ask'st thou me ? 

Caius. Thee ! thee, who late 
Did'st in such words discourse of him, as now 
Assure me thou'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak! 

FuL If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
More grateful praise, and warmer thanks might well 
Reward the gen'rous courage which hath freed 
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe ! 

Caius. Then he was slain by thee ? 

Ful. Ungrateful friend ! 
Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces 
Thy honour. Freedom's wavering light is dim ; 
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate ; 
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death 
Of infamy, another seeks thy fall ; 
And when one noble, one determined stroke. 
To thee and thine assures the vict'ry, wreaks 
The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fame, 
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade. 
Is it a cause for waifing ? Am I call'd 
For this a murderer? Go! — I say once more. 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 

Caius. I know thee now, barbarian ! Would'st 
thou serve 



348 ITALIAN literatuhe. 

My cause with crimes ? 

Fill. And those of that proud man 
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are they 
To be forgotten ? Hath obHvion then 
Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work. 
The famine of Numantia? Such a deed. 
As on our name the world's deep curses drew ! 
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray'd. 
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs, 
Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot? 
Go, ask of Carthage! — bid her wasted shores 
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount 
The terrible achievements! — At the cries. 
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those. 
The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom'd 
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword. 
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth 
In horror doth not open! — They were foes. 
They were barbarians, but unarm'd, subdued, 
Weeping, imploring mercy ! And the law 
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak. 
To tame the lofty ! But in other lands. 
Why should I seek for records of his crimes, 
If here the suffering people ask in vain 
A little earth to lay their bones in peace ? 
If the decree which yielded to their claims 
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal 
Thy brother's blood was shed ; if this rem.ain 
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he 
That mock'd its power? — Who to all Rome declared 
Thy brother's death was just, was needful? — Who 
But Scipio?— And remember thou the words 



THE GRACCHUS OF MONTI. 349 

Which burst in thunder from thy lips e'en then, 
Heard by the people ! Caius, in my heart 
They have been deeply treasured. He must die, 
(Thus didst thou speak) this tyrant ! We have need 
That he should perish! — I have done the deed; 
And call'st thou me his murderer? If the blow 
Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy lips 
The sentence came — the crime is thine alone. 
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey 
Thy mandate. 

Caius, Thou my friend ! I am not one. 
To call a villain friend. Let thunders fraught 
With fate and death, awake, to scatter those, 
Who bringing liberty through paths of blood 
Bring chains! — degreiding Freedom's lofty self 
Below e'en Slavery's level! — Say thou not, 
Wretch ! that the sentence and the guilt were mine I 
I wish'd him slain! — 'tis so — but by the axe 
Of high and public justice; that whose stroke 
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced 
Unutterably my name — I bid thee tremble ! 

Ful. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee, 
Jiet insult cease ! Be the deed just or guilty. 
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not 
To utter more. 

Caius. And what hast thou to say ? 

Ful. That which I now suppress. 

Caius. How ! are there yet, 
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal'd? 

Ful. I know not. 
Vol. II. 30 



350 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

Caius. Thou know'st not! — Horror chills my curd- 
ling veins; 
I dare not ask thee farther. 

Ful, Thou dost well. 

Caius. What said'st thou ? 

Ful. Nothing. 

Caius. On my heart the words 
Press heavily. Oh ! what a fearful light 
Bursts o'er my soul! — Hast thou accomplices? 

Ful. Insensate ! ask me not. 

Caius. I must be told. 

Ful. Away! — thou wilt repent. 

Caius. No more of this, for I will know. 

Ful. Thou wilt? 
Ask then thv sister. 

Caius {alone.) Ask my sister? — What! 
Is she a murderess? — Hath my sister slain 
Her lord? — Oh! crime of darkest dye! — Oh! name 
Till now unstain'd, name of the Gracchi, thus 
Consign'd to infamy! — to infamy? 
The very hair doth rise upon my head, 
Thrill'd by the thought ! — Where shall I find a place 
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains 
From this dishonour'd brow? — What should I do? 
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones 
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, 
"Away! — and pause not — slay thy guilty sister!" 
Voice of lost honour of a noble line 
Disgraced, I will obey thee! — terribly 
Thou call'st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 351 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS 



OF THE 



ITALIAN POETS. 



Whoever has attentively studied the works of the 
Italian poets, from the days of Dante and Petrarch to 
those o( Foscolo and Pindemonte, must have been 
struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, 
the renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give 
a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the 
vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voice 
of her bards has still been heard to prophesy the im- 
pending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit- 
stirring recollections from the glorious past, as have 
resounded through the land, notwithstanding the 
loudest tumults of those discords which have made 
her — 

" Long, long", a bloody stage 
For petty kinglings tame, 
Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage." 

There is something very affecting in these vain, 
though exalted aspirations, after that independence 
which the Italians, as a nation, seem destined never 
to regain. The strains in which their high-toned 
feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our 



852 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

minds the same effect with the song of the imprisoned 
bird, whose melody is fraught, in our imagination, 
with recollections of the green woodland, the free 
air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the 
perpetual violets and zephyrs, whose cloying sweet- 
ness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of the minor 
Italian poets, till we are ready to " die in aromatic 
pain ;" nor is our interest much more excited even by 
the everlasting laurel which inspires the enamoured 
Petrarch with so ingenious a variety of concetti, as 
might reasonably cause it to be doubted whether the 
beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, is the real 
object of the bard's affection ; but the moment a 
patriotic chord is struck our feelings are awakened, 
and we find it easy to sympathize with the emotions 
of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the 
capitol ; a Venetian when contemplating the proud 
trophies won by his ancestors at Byzantium ; or a 
Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty dead, in 
the church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, now, 
the time to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; 
yet cannot we consider that nation as altogether 
degraded, whose literature, from the dawn of its 
majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the 
nurture of every generous principle and ennobling 
recollection ; and whose " choice and master spirits," 
under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive 
a flame, which may well be considered as imperish- 
able, since the " ten thousand tyrants" of the land 
have failed to quench its brightness. We present our 
readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which 
the indignant though unavailing regrets of those, who, 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 353 

to use the words of Al fieri, are ** slaves, yet still indig' 
mint slaves,'" have been feelingly portrayed. 

The first of these productions must, in the original, 
be familiar to every reader who has any acquaintance 
with Italian literature. 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

" Quando giu dai gran monti bruna bruna," &c. 

When from the mountain's brow, the gathering shades 
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell: 

Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades, 
Nor bids the universe at once farewell. 

But thou, I cr)% my country ! what a night 

Spreads o'er thy glories one dark sweeping pall; 

Thy thousand triumphs won by valour's might. 
And wisdom's voice — what now remains of all? 

And see'st thou not th' ascending flame of war, 
Burst through thy darkness, redd'ning from afar? 

Is not thy misery's evidence complete ? 
But if endurance can thy fall delay. 
Still, still endure, devoted one ! and say. 

If it be victory thus but to retard defeat ! 

* " Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi." — Alfieri. 
30* 



354 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

CARLO MARIA MAGGI. 

♦' lo grido, e gridero finche mi senta," &c. 

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 

Arno, Sessino, Tiber; Adrian deep, 

And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first roused from 
sleep 
Startle the next ! one peril broods o'er all. 
It nought avails that Italy should plead. 

Forgetting valour, sinking in despair. 

At strangers' feet! — our land is all too fair; 
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed 
In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, 
For pardon sue; 'tis not her agony, 

Her death alone may now appease her foes. 
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun ! 
But oh ! weak pride, thus feeble and undone. 

Nor to wage battle, nor endure repose ! 



ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI. 

" Italia ! Italia ! ah ! non piu Italia ! appena," &c. 

Italia ! oh ! no more Italia now ! 

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear; 
She was a queen with glory mantled; — Thou, 

A slave, degraded, and compell'd to bear. 

Chains gird thy hands and feet ; deep clouds of care 
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies; 

And shadows, born of terror and despair — 

Shadows of death have dimm'd thy glorious eyes. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 355 

Italia ! oh ! Italia, now no more ! 

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow ; 
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour, 

Are changed to dirge-notes : but my deepest woe 
Is, that base herds of thine own sons, the while, 

Behold thy miseries with insulting smile. 



ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. 

"Quella. ch'ambi le mani entro la chioma," <&c. 

She that cast down the empires of the world, 
And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome, 

Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurl'd, 
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome. 

I see her now, dismantled of her state, 

Spoil'd of her sceptre ; crouching to the ground 

Beneath a hostile car, and lo ! the weight 
Of fetters, her imperial neck around ! 

Oh ! that a stranger's envious hands had wrought 
This desolation ! for I then would say, 

"Vengeance, Italia!" — in the buiiiing thought 
Losing my grief: but 'tis th' ignoble sway 

Of vice hath bow'd thee ! Discord, slothful ease, 
Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these. 



356 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. 
THE SHORE OF AFRICA. 

"O peregrin, chi muovi erranti il passo," &c. 

Pilgrim ! whose steps those desert sands explore, 

Where verdure never spreads its bright array ; 
Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore, 

From Pompey's heart the Ufe-blood ebb'd away. 
'Twas here betray 'd he fell, neglected lay; 

Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone, 
Whose life, so long a bright, triumphal day, 

O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone ! 

Thou, stranger ! if from barbarous climes thy birth. 
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth. 

Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; 
But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, 
Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, 

And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. 



THE SCEPTIC, 

A POEM. 



Leur raison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne presente a leur esprit que 
des conjectures et des erabarras ; les absurdites ou ils tombent en niant 
la Religion deviennenl plus insoutenables que les verites dont la hauteur 
les etonne ; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, 

ils suivent I'une apres Tautre d'incoraprehensibles erreurs." Bossuet, 

Oraisons Funebres, 



1* ra 



THE SCEPTIC. 



When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
Has learned to dare the splendour of the sky, 
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course. 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, 
Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light. 
Which far below, with evanescent fire. 
Shines to delude, and dazzles to expire? 

No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze 
The day-spring from on high hath pour'd its blaze. 
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam 
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from a star of faith, 
To the deep valley of the shades of death ? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given. 
For the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven? 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy. 
What yet remains? — a dark eternity! 

Is earth still Eden ! — might a seraph guest. 
Still, 'midst its chosen bowers, delighted rest ! 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 

(7) 



8 THE SCEPTIC. 

That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 
And leaves the rock, no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base ? 

Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song. 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high. 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
'Tis well, thine eye is yet undimm'd by time. 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice. 
And, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice ! 

But life has sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil. 
Are few and distant on the desert soil; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan. 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared — 
Proud child of reason, how art thou prepared ? 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow'd. 
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud. 
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain. 
With the bright images* of pleasure's train? 
Yes ! as the sight of some far distant shore. 
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more. 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave ! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call. 
She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all ? 



THE SCEPTIC. 9 

Will she speak comfort ? — Thou hast shorn her plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born beyond the stars to soar. 
And kindling at the source of life, above ; 
Thoa couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free. 
And sheds the dews of heav'n on all but thee. 

Yet few there are, so lonely, so bereft. 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs is left. 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's hour. 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head. 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou ! whose thoughts have no blest home 
above. 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love ? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest. 
Within that hallow'd shrine — a parent's breast, 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie. 
On one frail idol, — destined but to die. 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, reunite ? 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy I 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear, 
Still let "for ever" vibrate on thine ear I 



10 THE SCEPTIC. 

If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown. 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis gone! 
Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust. 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust ! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care. 
Think on that dread ^^for ever'' — and despair! 

And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs. 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky — 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, 
And the bark sink, when peace and sunshine sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep I 
Yes I ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate. 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate 1 
Not always Heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds; 
He fills the summer-air with latent power, 
He hides his venom in the scented flower. 
He steals upon thee, in the Zephyr's breath. 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast. 



THE SCEPTIC. 11 

And vainly hope the tree of Hfe to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, 
It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell. 
Become a desert now, a veil of gloom, 
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb? 
Where shalt thou turn? — it is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze. 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast, 
Not for thine eye shall faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest. 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest, 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this; 
The future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the Gate of Life to close. 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows ? 
That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves embrace 
Each distant isle, and visit every race, 
Pours from the Throne of God its current free, 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. 
Oh ! while the doom impends, nor yet decreed. 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead, 
While still, suspended by a single hair. 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air. 
Bow down thy heart to Him, who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 
Patient, because Eternal, (1) He may hear 
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening spirit from above. 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 



12 THE SCEPTIC. 

But vseek thou mercy through his name alone, 
To whose unequall'd sorrows none was shown. 
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God ! 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

Call thou on Him — for He, in human form, 
Hath walk'd the waves of Life, and still'd the storm ; 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last. 
Wept with such tears as Ju dab's monarch pour'd 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive! 

Call thou on Him — his pra3'^er e'en then arose, 
Breathed in unpitied anguish, for his foes. 
And haste! — ere bursts the lightning from on high, 
Fly to the City of thy refuge, fly ! (2) 
So shall the avenger turn his steps away, 
And sheathe his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, 
As the soft Halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued; 
Ere yet the dove of Heaven descend, to shed 
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. 
— He who hath pined in dungeons, 'midst the shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made. 
Through lingering years; if call'd at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free. 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun. 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun ! 



THE SCEPTIC. 13 

ThuS; when the captive soul hath long remainM 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain'd. 
If the Deliverer, in his might at last, 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away — that spark of mind, 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined. 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray. 
Born to be foster'd with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour» when o'er thee pass'd, 
On wing of flame, the purifying blast. 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, 
Like Sinai's trumpet, call'd thee to thy God ! 

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride. 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride? 
In thine own strength unaided to defy. 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? 
Torn by the vulture, fetter'd to the rock. 
Still, Demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? 
Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 
Yet not the less be shatter'd on its height. 
By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! 
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne. 
In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn. 
Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent 
To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh 1 what is nature's strength? the vacant eye. 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! 
Vol. III. 2 



14 THE SCEPTIC. 

The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there! - 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 
Close not tliine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee, reason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, 
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave. 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains, 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur — moulderim? 

fanes, 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown. 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own ; 
Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind. 
Whose star is quench'd, hath lessons for mankind, 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome. 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more? 
Who pierce the deep, mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shatter'd temple of the soul, 
Curtain'd with midnight? — low its columns lie. 
And dark the chambers of its imag'ry, (8) 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'er thrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare. 
Is heard an oracle that cries — "Beware! 
Child of the dust! but ransom'd of the skies! 
One breath of Heaven — and thus thy glory dies! 
Haste, ere the hour of doom, draw nigh, to Him 
Who dwells above between the cherubim!" 



THE SCEPTIC. 15 

Spirit dethroned ! and check'd in mid career, 
Son of the morning ! exiled from thy sphere, 
Tell us thy tale ! — Perchance thy race was run 
With science, in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep. 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep. 
And search the laws that Nature's springs control, 
There tracing all — save Him who guides the whole. 

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled. 
The depth of time exploring to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanish'd race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre, 
Till its deep chords became mstinct with fire, 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swell'd on high. 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony, 
While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at th' electric sound ? 

Lord of th' Ascendant ! what avails it now. 
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? 
What, though thy name, through distant empires heard, 
Bade the heart bound as doth a battle-word? 
Was it for this thy still unvi^earied eye 
Kept vigil with the watch-fires of the sky. 
To make the secrets of all ages thine. 
And commune with majestic thoughts that snine 
O'er Time's long shadowy pathway? — hath thy mind 
Sever'd its lone dominions from mankind. 



16 THE SCEPTIC. 

For this to woo their homage? — Thou hast sought 
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, 
Won every wreath — but that which will not die. 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity! 

And did all fail thee, in the hour of wrath, 
When burst th' o'er whelming vials on thy path ? 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
O spirit ! scepter'd by the sons of men. 
With an Immortal's courage to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly pain? 

— One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved 
When the loud fury of the billow raved ; 
But him thou knew'st not — and the light he lent 
Hath vanish'd from its ruin'd tenement, 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget! 
Lift the dread veil no further — hide, oh! hide 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! 
The dagger grasp'd in death — the brow, the eye. 
Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony ; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mien, who died, — "and made no sign!" 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fever'd brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain ; 
Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour. 
Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power. 
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th' Atoner's love 1 

O Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou whose ways 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze. 



THE SCEPTIC. 17 

Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand. 

Seraph and man, alike in weakness stand, 

And countless ages, trampling into clay 

Earth's empires on their march, are but a day; 

Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd — Thou, 

With whom all time is one eternal noiv, 

Who know'st no past, nor future — Thou whose breath 

Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death ! 

Look on us, guide us ! — wanderers o/ a sea 

Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee! 

A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 

A star may set — and we are lost in night; 

A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 

A treach'rous song allure us — and we sink! 

Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light. 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And Heaven and Earth disdain'd not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity; 
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish! — let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe — the soul; 
Pervade the depths of passion — speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
" Here shall thy waves be stay'd" — in grief, in pain 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain, 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! — thus secure 
In Thee shall Faith and Fortitude endure; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
And, by affliction guided to Thy shiine, 
The first, last thought of sutTering hearts be Thine 
2* 



18 THE SCEPTIC. 

And oh ! be near, when clothed with conquering 
power, 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss. 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss. 
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave. 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink the cup of trembling (4) — when we see 
Naught in the* universe but Death and Thee, 
Forsake us not;--- if still, when life was young, 
Faith to Thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, 
U Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past. 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast. 
Father, forsake us not! — when tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge. 
When from Thy justice to Thy love we tiy. 
On Nature's conflict look with pitying eye. 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease. 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper — peace ! (5) 

For oh! 'tis awful — He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repell'd. 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain. 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union form'd and closed in woe. 
Well knows that hour is awful. — In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 
W^e talk of Death, as something, which 'twere sweet 
In Glory's arms exultingly to meet, 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene. 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien> 



THE SCEPTIC. 19 

As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 

Hush, fond enthusiast! — still, obscure and lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 
Is the last hour of thousands — they retire 
From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire ; 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares. 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom — and, ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler ! — such maybe thine own. 

But, as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, 
A thrilling thought, which haply mock'd before. 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more! 
There are who fly its murmurs 'midst the throng, 
That join the masque of revelry and song ; 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored, 
Frowns 'midst the roses of the festal board, 
And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood. 
And the heart owns the might of solitude, 
Is its low whisper heard? — a note profound. 
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound. 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose 
Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes ! 

Oh ! vainly Reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life hath nought to claim such lingering love. 
And ask if e'er the captive, half unchain'd, 
Clung to the links which yet bis step restrain'4? 



20 THE SCEPTIC. 

In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, 

Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, 

Call up the countless armies of the dead, 

Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 

And say — "What wouldst thou? Shall the fix'd 

decree, 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee ? " 

— Poor, feeble aid ! — proud Stoic ! ask not why, 
It is enough, that nature shrinks to die ! 
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, 
Is her dread penalt}^, and must be paid ! 

— Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined 
And mystic questions of the parting mind. 

Half check'd, half utter'd — tell her, what shall burst, 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first. 
When freed from mortal films ! — what viewless world 
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl'd? 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried ? 
Say, if at once, her final doom to hear, 
Before her God the trembler must appear. 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall vield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth 
shall flee? 

Hast thou no answer ? — then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrink, yet cease not to explore 
Th' unknown, th' unseen, the future — though the 

heart, 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start; 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirit sigh, 
They have their source in- immortality ! 



THE SCEPTIC. 21 

Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid 

denies, 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise ? 
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, 
Where'er we tly, still wins the dreadful race, 
The mighty rider comes — O whence shall aid 
Be drawn, to meet his rushing, undismay'd? 
— Whence, but from thee, Messiah! — thou hast drain'd 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd ; 
To thee the struggle and the pang were known. 
The mystic horror — all became thine own! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? 
Came not th* Archangel, in the final hour, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power ? 
No, Son of God I upon thy sacred head 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed. 
From man averted — and thy path on high 
Pass'd through the strait of fiercest agony ; 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes. 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice I 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb 
Is won the vict'ry, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod, 
Break forth in joy, ye ransom'd ! saith your God 1 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar. 
And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star 

He rose ! the everlasting gates of day 
Received the King of Glory on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept. 
And the first-fruits of them, in Him that slept. 



22 THE SCEPTIC. 

He rose, he triumph'd! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried. Rejoice! 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend, 
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, 
He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left? 
But for the vision of the days to be, 
But for the comforter, despised by thee. 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke. 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast. 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd. 
And the stern power who seeks the nobkst prey. 
Hath call'd our fairest and our best away ? 
Should we not madden when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold. 
No more responsive to our smile or sigh, 
Fix'd — frozen — silent — all mortality ? 
But for the promise, all shall yet be well. 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel. 
Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand 
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; 



THE SCEPTIC. 23 

And thou,* just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, 

Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness. 

With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 

O England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead ? 

But Thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart. 

Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 

When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child, 
Yearn'd with vain longing — still thy patient eye. 
To its last light, beam'd holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast. 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last, 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose; 
While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour. 
Who from the brightest vision of a throne. 
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own. 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast. 
As blasted Israel, when her Ark was lost ! 

"It is the will of God!" — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career; 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode. 
But for that thought — "It is the will of God!" 
Who shall arraign th^ Eternal's dark decree. 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee? 
Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, 

'The Princess Charlotte. 



24 THE SCEPTIC. 

Still may thy memory bloom our vales among. 

Hallowed by freedom, and enshrined in song ! 

Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell, 

Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 

E'en as an angel, with presiding care, 

To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm-presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise. 
To set the sign of fire on every height, (6) 
And o'er the mountains rear, with patriot might, 
Prepared, if summon'd, in its cause to die, 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory ! 

By this hath England conquer'd — field and flood 
Have own'd her sov'reignty — alone she stood, 
When chains o'er all the scepter'd earth were thrown. 
In high and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God — and shall she now^ 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow? 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn. 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn ? 
No ! sever'd land, 'midst rocks and billows rude, 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude. 
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest. 
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers. 
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy tov/ers ! 

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle I 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile. 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes, . 
That guard the peasant's records and remains, 



THE SCEPTIC. 25 

May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell 

Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, 

And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, 

When starlight glimmers through the deep'ning shades. 

Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise, 

And bear the land's vs^arm incense to the skies. 

There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To Heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, 
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days. 
When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp convey'd; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes. 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, 
Tell of his name, who left his Throne on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify. 
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, 
And fondly say — "My child, for thee He died!" 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

Patient, because Eternal. 
"He is patient, because He is eternal." 

St. Augustine. 
Note 2. 
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly ! 

"Then he shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge for 
you ; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person 
Vol. III. 3 



26 THE SCEPTIC. 

at unawares. — And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from 
the avenger." Numbers, chap. 35. 

Note 3. 

And dark the chambers of its imagery. 

" Every man in the chambers of his imagery." 

EzEKiEL, chap. 8. 

Note 4, 

Must drink the cup of trembling. 

" Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and 
wrung them out." Isaiah, chap. 51. 

Note 5. 

Come in the still small voice, and whisper — peace. 

" And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind 
rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the 
Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind : and after the wind an 
earthquake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake : and after 
the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was not in the fire : and 
after tne fire a still small voice." Kings, book i. chap. 19. 

Note 6. 

To set the sign of fire on every height. 

"And set up a sign of fire." Jeremiah, chap. 6. 



A TALE 



OP 



THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

(27) 



A TALE 

OF 

THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



The Secret Tribunal,* which attained such formi- 
dable power towards the close of the fourteenth cen- 
tury, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly 
known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, 
who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the 
people, and were bound by a tremendous oath, to 
deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without 
exception, if they had committed any offence cogni- 
zable by the tribunal. They were also under an 
obligation to relate all they knew concerning the 
affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condem- 
nation, to pursue and put him to death, wherever 
he might be met with. The proceedings of this tri- 
bunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest 
mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit 
three times before sentence was passed, yet persons 
obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned 
without any citation. After condemnation, it was 
almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance 
of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands 
of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the 

^ See the works of Baron Bock and Professor Kramer. 

3* (20) 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice 
it, but to execute the decrees of the order with the 
most devoted obedience, even should they consider the 
object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. 
Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admis- 
sion into the society; there were Free Judges even 
amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and 
every prince had some of their order in his council. 
When a member of this tribunal was not of himself 
strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, 
he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a 
sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, 
and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, 
to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any 
questions. It was usual to hang up the person con- 
demned, with a willow branch, to the first tree ; but 
if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with 
a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be 
known he had not been assassinated, but executed by 
a Free Judge. All the transactions of the Sages or 
Seers (as they called themselves), were enveloped in 
mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs 
they revealed themselves to each other. At length 
their power became so extensive and redoubtable, 
that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to 
unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they 
were at length successful. 

The following account of this extraordinary asso- 
ciation is given by Madame de Stael : — "Desjuges 
mysteneux, inconnus I'un a I'autre, toujours masques, 
et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le 
silenccj et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu'ils 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 31 

enfor^oient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: 
Tribunal Secret. lis prevenoient le condamne, en 
faisant crier, trois fois sous les fenetres de sa maison, 
Malheur, Malheur, Malheur ! Alors I'infortune savoit 
que par-tout, dans I'etranger. dans son concitoyen, 
dans son parent meme, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. 
La solitude, la foule, les vilies, les campagnes, tout 
etoit rempli par la presence invisible de cette con- 
science armee qui poursuivoit les criminels. On 
con^oit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit etre 
necessaire, dans un temps ou chaque homme etoit 
fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent etre forts 
contre chacun. II falloit que la justice surprit le 
criminel avant qu'il put s'en defendre; mais cette 
punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre 
vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler 
le sein meme d'un ami, frappoit d'une invincible 
terreur." VAllemagne, Vol. II. 



PART I. 

Night veil'd the mountains of the vine. 
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, 
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, 
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore. 
While glen and cavern, to their moans, 
Gave answer with a thousand tones : 
Then, as the voice of storms appall'd 
The peasant of the Odenwald,^ 

^ The Odenwald, a forest-district near the Rhine, adjoining the 
territories of Darmstadt 



32 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Shuddering he deem'd, that, far on high, 
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by. 
Riding the blast with phantom speed, 
With cry of hound, and tramp of steed. 
While his fierce train, as on they flew, 
Their horns in savage chorus blew. 
Till rock, and tower, and convent round. 
Rung to the shrill unearthly sound. 

Vain dreams ! far other footsteps traced 
The forest paths, in secret haste; 
Far other sounds were on the night. 
Though lost amidst the tempest's might. 
That fiU'd the echoing earth and sky. 
With its own awful harmony. 
There stood a lone and ruin'd fane. 
Far in the Odenwald's domain, 
'Midst wood and rock, a deep recess 
Of still and shadowy loneliness. 
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown. 
The wild-flower waved o^er the altar-stone,. 
The night-wind rock'd the tottering pile. 
As it swept along the roofless aisle, 
For the forest-boughs, and the stormy sky. 
Were all that minster's canopy. 

Many a broken image lay 
In the mossy mantle of decay. 
And partial light the moonbeams darted 
O'er trophies of the long departed ; 
For there the chiefs of other days, 
The mighty, slumber'd, with their praise: 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 33 

*Tvvas long since aught but the dews of Heaven 
A tribute to their bier had given, 
Long since a sound but the moaning blast 
Above their voiceless home had passed. 

So slept the proud, and with them all 
The records of their fame and fall; 
Helmet, and shield, and sculptured crest 
Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest, 
And emblems of the Holy Land 
Were carved by some forgotten hand; 
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, 
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; 
And the scattered leaves of the northern pine 
Half hid the palm of Palestine. 
So slept the glorious — lowly laid, 
As the peasant in his native shade ; 
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, 
All that high deeds could win from time ! 

What footsteps move, with measured tread, 
Amid those chambers of the dead? 
What silent, shadowy beings glide 
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside. 
Peopling the wild and solemn scene 
With forms well suited to his mien? 
Wanderer, away ! let none intrude 
On their mysterious solitude ! 
Lo ! these are they, that awful band. 
The secret Watchers of the land. 
They that, unknown and uncontroll'd. 
Their dark and dread tribunal hold. 



34 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

They meet not in the monarch's dome. 
They meet not in the chieftain's home; 
But where, unbounded o'er their heads. 
All heaven magnificently spreads. 
And from its depths of cloudless blue 
The eternal stars their deeds may view ! 
Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod 
By roving feet are seldom trod ; 
Where'er the pathless forest waves. 
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; 
Where'er wild legends mark a spot. 
By mortals shunn'd, but unforgot. 
There, circled by the shades of night. 
They judge of crimes that shrink from light. 
And guilt, that deems its secret known 
To the One unslumbering eye alone. 
Yet hears their name with a sudden start. 
As an icy touch had chili'd its heart, 
For the shadow of th' avenger's hand 
Rests dark and heavy on the land. 

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom, 
And woke the echoes of the tomb, 
As if the noble hearts beneath 
Sent forth deep answers to its breath. 

"When the midnight stars aro burning. 
And the dead to earth returning; 
When the spirits of the blest 
Rise upon the good man's rest; 
When each whisper of the gale 
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 36 

In the shadow of the hour 

That o'er the soul hath deepest power, 

Why thus meet we, but to call 

For judgment on the criminal ? 

Why, but the doom of guilt to seal. 

And point th' avenger's holy steel ? 

A fearful oath has bound our souls, 

A fearful power our arm controls! 

There is an ear, awake on high. 

E'en to thought's whispers, ere they die; 

There is an eye, whose beam pervades 

All depths, all deserts, and all shades; 

That ear hath heard our awful vow. 

That searching eye is on us now ! 

Let him whose heart is unprofaned. 

Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain'd — 

Let him, whose thoughts no record keep 

Of crimes, in silence buried deep. 

Here, in the face of Heaven, accuse 

The guilty whom its wrath pursues!" 

'Twas hushed — that voice of thrilling sound 
And a dead silence reign'd around. 
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form 
Tower'd like a phantom in the storm ; 
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud. 
With its dark folds his face to shroud, 
7'hrough pillar'd arches on he pass'd. 
With stately step, and paused at last. 
Where, on the altar's mouldering stone. 
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone ; 
Then on the fearful stillness broke 
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke : 



%& A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

" Before that eye, whose glance pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades; 
Heard by that ear awake on Iwh 
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die ; 
With all a mortal's awe I stand, 
Yet with pure heart, and stainless hand. 
To Heaven I lift that hand, and call 
For judgment on the criminal; 
The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues. 
It cries for vengeance — I accuse!" 

" Name thou the guilty ! say for whom 
Thou claim'st th' inevitable doom!'' 

"Albert of Lindheim — to the skies 
The voice of blood against him cries ; 
A brother's blood — his hand is dyed 
With the deep stain of fratricide. 
One hour, one moment, hath reveal'd, 
What years in darkness had conceal'd 
But all in vain — the gulf of time 
Refusiid to close upon his crime ; 
And guilt that slept on flowers, shall know. 
The earthquake was but hush'd below ! 

Here, where amidst the noble dead, 
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; 
Where, left by him to dark decay, 
Their trophies moulder fast away : 
Around us and beneath us lie 
The relics of his ancestry; 
The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, 
Each in his last low dwelling-place: 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 37 

But one is absent — o'er his grave 
The palmy shades of Syria wave; 
Far distant from his native Rhine, 
He died unmourn'd, in Palestine ; 
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, 
To perish by a brother's hand! 
Peace to his soul ! though o'er his bed 
No dirge be pour'd, no tear be shed, 
Though all he loved his name forget, 
They live who shall avenge him yet ! " 

" Accuser ! how to thee alone 
Became the fearful secret known ? " 

" There is an hour when vain remorse 
First wakes in her eternal force ; 
When pardon may not be retrieved. 
When conscience will not be deceived. 
He that beheld the victim bleed. 
Beheld, and aided in the deed — 
When earthly fears had lost their power 
Reveal'd the tale in such an hour, 
Unfolding, with his latest breath. 
All that gave keener pangs to death." 

" By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, 
Who is for ever, and hath been, 
And by th' Atoner's cross adored, 
And by th' avenger's holy sword. 
By truth eternal and divine, 
Accuser ! wilt thou swear to thine 1 " 
— " The cross upon my heart is prest, 
I hold the dagger to my breast; 

Vol. III. 4 



38 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

If false the tale whose truth I swear, 
Be mine the murderer's doom to bear ! " 

Then sternly rose the dread reply — 
"His days are number'd — he must die! 
There is no shadow of the night. 
So deep as to conceal his flight; 
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste. 
But there his footstep shall be traced ; 
Devotion hath no shrine so blest. 
That there in safety he may rest. 
Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there 
Around him spread her secret snare I 
In the busy haunts of men. 
In the still, and shadowy glen. 
When the social board is crown'd. 
When the wine-cup sparkles round; 
When his couch of sleep is prest, 
And a dream his spirit's guest ; 
When his bosom knows no fear. 
Let the dagger still be near, 
Till, sudden as the lightning's dart, 
Silent and swift it reach his heart ! 
One warning voice, one fearful word. 
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, 
Then vainly may the guilty fly. 
Unseen, unaided, — he must die! 
Let those he loves prepare his tomb. 
Let friendship lure him to his doom! 
Perish his deeds, his name, his race. 
Without a record or a trace! 
Away ! be watchful, swift, and free. 
To wreak th' invisible's decree. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 39 

'Tis pass'd — th' avenger claims his prey. 
On to the chase of death — away ! " 

And all was still — the sweeping blast 
Caught not a whisper as it pass'd; 
The shadowy forms were seen no more. 
The tombs deserted as before ; 
And the wide forest waved immense, 
In dark and lone magnificence. 
In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed ; 
The song w^as hush'd, the bard reposed; 
Sleep settled on the weary guest, 
And the castle's lord retired to rest. 
To rest ! the captive doom'd to die, 
May slumber, when his hour is nigh; 
The seaman, when the billows foam, 
Rock'd on the mast, may dream of home ; 
The warrior, on the battle's eve. 
May win from care a short reprieve; 
But earth and heaven alike deny 
Their peace to guilt's o'erwearied eye; 
And night, that brings to grief a calm. 
To toil a pause, to pain a balm. 
Hath spells terrific in her course. 
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse. 
Voices, that long from earth had fled, 
And steps and echoes from the dead; 
And many a dream, whose forms arise, 
Like a darker world's realities ! 
Call them not vain illusions — born. 
But for the wise and brave to scorn ! 
Heaven, that the penal doom defers, 
Hath yet its thousand ministers. 



40 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown. 
In shade, in silence, and alone. 
Concentrating in one brief hour 
Ages of retribution's power ! 

If thou wouldst know the lot of those. 
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, 
Ah ! seek them not where pleasure's throng 
Are listening to the voice of song; 
Seek them not where the banquet glows. 
And the red vineyard's nectar flows: 
There mirth may flush the hollow cheek, 
The eye of feverish joy may speak. 
And smiles, the ready mask of pride. 
The canker-worm within may hide : 
Heed not those signs! they but delude; 
Follow, and mark their solitude 1 

The song is hush'd, the feast is done. 
And Lindheim's lord remains alone. 
Alone, in silence and unrest, 
With the dread secret of his breast; 
Alone with anguish and with fear ; 
— There needs not an avenger here 1 
Behold him! — Why that sudden start? 
Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart \ 
Thou hear'st the night-wind's hollow sigh. 
Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry 1 
No sound but these may near thee be; 
Sleep 1 all things earthly sleep — but thee. 

No ! there are murmurs on the air. 
And a voice is heard that cries — "Despair I '* 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 41 

And he who trembles fain would deem 
'Twas the whisper of a waking dream. 
Was it but this? — again 'tis there, 
Again is heard — "Despair! Despair!" 
'Tis past — its tones have slowly died 
In echoes on the mountain side; 
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell, 
He knew their fearful meaning well. 
And shrinking from the midnight gloom. 
As from the shadow of the tomb. 
Yet shuddering, turn'd in pale dismay 
When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, 
And sought, amidst the forest wild, 
Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. 

Yes! hide thee, guilt! — the laughing morn 
Wakes in a heaven of splendour born I 
The storms that shook the mountain crest 
Have sought their viewless world of rest. 
High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, 
Soars the young eagle in the blaze. 
Exulting, as he wings his way, 
To revel in the fount of day, 
And brightly past his banks of vine. 
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; 
And joyous peals the vintage song 
His wild luxuriant shores along. 
As peasant bands, from rock and dell. 
Their strains of choral transport swell; 
And cliffs of bold fantastic forms. 
Aspiring to the realm of storms; 
And woods around, and waves below. 

Catch the red Orient's deepening glow, 

4* 



42 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL* 

That lends each tower, and convent-spire, 

A tinge of its ethereal fire. 

Swell high the song of festal hours! 

Deck ye the shrine with living flowers f 

Let music o'er the waters breathe I 

Let beauty twine the bridal wreath f 

While she, whose blue eye laughs in light. 

Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright 

The fair-hair'd maid of Lindheim's hall. 

Wakes to her nuptial festival. 

Oh ! who hath seen, in dreams that soar 

To worlds the soul would fain explore. 

When, for her own blest country pining. 

Its beauty o'er her thought is shining. 

Some fdrm of heaven, whose cloudless eye 

Was all one beam of ecstasy ! 

Whose glorious brow no traces wore 

Of guilt, or sorrow known before ! 

Whose smile, undimm'd by aught of earth, 

A sunbeam of immortal birth. 

Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying. 

Where love and joy are both undying! 

E'en thus — a vision of delight, 

A beam to gladden mortal sight, 

A flower w^hose head no storm had bow'd, 

Whose leaves ne'er droop'd beneath a cloud; 

Thus, by the world unstain'd, untried, 

Seem'd that beloved and lovely bride; 

A being all too soft and fair. 

One breath of earthly Vk?oe to bear ! 

Yet lives there many a lofty mind. 

In light and fragile form enshrined; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 43 

And oft smooth cheek, and smiling eye. 
Hide strength to suffer and to die ! 
Judge not of woman's heart in hours 
That strew her path with summer flowers. 
When joy's full cup is mantling high, 
When flattery's blandishments are nigh ; 
Judge her not then ! within her breast 
Are energies unseen, that rest ! 
They wait their call — and grief alone 
May make the soul's deep secrets known. 
Yes ! let her smile, 'midst pleasure's train 
Leading the reckless and the vain ! 
Firm on the scaflbld she hath stood. 
Besprinkled with the martyr's blood; 
Her voice the patriot's heart hath steel'd. 
Her spirit glow'd on battle-field; 
Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom 
The captive brooding o'er his doom ; 
Her faith the fallen monarch saved. 
Her love the tyrant's fury braved ; 
No scene of danger or despair. 
But she hath won her triumph there ! 

Away ! nor cloud the festal morn 
With thoughts of boding sadness borne ! 
Far other, lovelier dreams are thine. 
Fair daughter of a noble line ! 
Young Ella ! from thy tower, whose height 
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light. 
Watching, while soft the morning air 
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, 
Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide 
Bears thv loved warrior to his bride — 



44 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

He, whose high deeds romantic praise 
Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays. 

He came — that youthful chief — he came 
That favour'd lord of love and fame ! 
His step was hurried — as of one 
Who seeks a voice within to shun ; 
His cheek was varying, and express'd 
The conflict of a troubled breast : 
His eye was anxious — doubt, and dread, 
And a stern grief, might there be read; 
Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien 
Seem'd struggling to be still unseen. 

With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, 
Young Ella met the brow austere. 
And the wild look, which seem''d to fly 
The timid welcome of her eye. 
Was that a lover's gaze, which chill'd 
The soul, its awful sadness thrilPd? 
A lover's brow, so darkly fraught 
With all the heaviest gloom of thought? 
She trembled — ne'er to grief inured. 
By its dread lessons ne'er matured: 
Unused to meet a glance of less 
Than all a parent's tenderness. 
Shuddering she felt, through every sense. 
The death-like faintness of suspense. 

High o'er the windings of the flood, 
On Lindheim's terraced rocks they stood, 
Whence the free sight afar might stray 
O'er that imperial river's way. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 45 

Which, rushing from its Alpine source, 
Makes one long triumph of its course. 
Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, 
'Midst Nature's noblest pageantry. 
But they, o'er that majestic scene, 
With clouded brow and anxious mien, 
In silence gazed: — for Ella's heart 
Fear'd its own terrors to impart ; 
And he, who vainly strove to hide 
His pangs, with ail a warrior's pride, 
Seem'd gathering courage to unfold 
Some fearful tale that must be told. 

At length his mien, his voice, obtain'd 
A calm, that seem'd by conflicts gain'd. 
And thus he spoke — '* Yes ! gaze a while 
On the bright scenes that round thee smile ; 
For, if thy love be firm and true. 
Soon must thou bid their charms adieu ! 
A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree 
Must bear me far from them or thee ; 
Our path is one of snares and fear, 
I lose thee if I linger here ! 
Droop not, beloved ! thy home shall rise 
As fair, beneath far distant skies ; 
As fondly tenderness and truth 
Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. 
But speak ! and when yon hallow'd shrine 
Hath heard the vows which make thee mine. 
Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more 
To tread thine own loved mountain-shore. 
But share and soothe, repining not 
The bitterness of exile's lot?" 



46 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

" Ulric ! thou know'st how dearly loved 
The scenes where first my childhood roved; 
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme 
Above our own majestic stream, 
The halls where first my heart beat high 
To the proud songs of chivalry. 
All, all are dear — yet these are ties 
Aflfection well may sacrifice ; 
Loved though they be, where'er thou art, 
There is the country of my heart ! 
Yet, is there one, who, reft of me, 
Were lonely as a blasted tree; 
One, who still hoped my hand should close 
His eyes, in Nature's last repose ; 
Eve gathers round him — on his brow 
Already rests the wintry snow; 
His form is bent, his features wear 
The deepening lines of age and care, 
His faded eye hath lost its fire; 
Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire ? 
Yet tell me all — thy woes impart. 
My Ulric ! to a faithful heart. 
Which sooner far — oh, doubt not this — 
Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss ! " 

"Ella, what would'st thou? — 'tis a tale 
Will make that cheek as marble pale ! 
Yet what avails it to conceal 
All thou too soon must know and feel ? 
It must, it must be told — prepare, 
And nerve that gentle heart to bear — 
But I — oh, was it then for me 
The herald of thy woes to be ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 47 

Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, 
And wake thee first from dreams of joy ? 
Forgive! — I would not ruder tone 
Should make the fearful tidings known, 
I would not that unpitying eyes 
Should coldly watch thine agonies ! 
Better 'twere mine — that task severe. 
To cloud thy breast with grief and fear! 

" Hast thou not heard, in legends old, 
Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, 
Of those who meet in cave or glen, 
Far from the busy walks of men ; 
Those who mysterious vigils keep. 
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep. 
To judge of crimes, like Him on high. 
In stillness and in secresy ? 
Th' unknown avengers, whose decree 
'T is fruitless to resist or flee ? 
Whose name hath cast a spell of power 
O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower? 
Thy sire — oh, Ella! hope is fled! 
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead ! 
Their sentence, theirs, hath seal'd his doom 
And thou may'st weep as o'er his tomb 1 
Yes, weep! — relieve thy heart oppress'd, 
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast 1 
Thy cheek is cold — thy tearless eye 
Seems fix'd in frozen vacancy ; 
Oh, gaze not thus! — thy silence break. 
Speak! if 'tis but in anguish, speak!" 



48 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

She spoke at length, in accents low 
Of wild and half-indignant woe : 
— "He doom'd to perish! he decreed 
By their avenging arm to bleed ! 
He, the renown'd in holy fight, 
The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might! 
Ulric ! what mean'st thou? — not a thought 
Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! 
Say, for which glorious trophy won, 
Which deed of martial prowess done; 
Which battle-field, in days gone by, 
Gain'd by his valour, must he die ? 
Away! 'tis not his lofty name 
Their sentence hath consign'd to shame ; 
'Tis not his life they seek — recall 
Thy words, or say he shall not fall ! " 

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief 
Gave pleading softness to her grief: 
"And wilt thou not, by all the ties 
Of our affianced love," she cries, 
" By all my soul hath fix'd on thee, 
Of cherish'd hope for years to be. 
Wilt thou not aid him ? wilt not thou 
Shield his grey head from danger now? 
And didst thou not, in childhood's morn, 
That saw our young affection born. 
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, 
Sharing his parent-smile with me? 
Kind, gentle Ulric ! best beloved ! 
Now be thy faith in danger proved! 
Though snares and terrors round him wait, 
Thou wilt not leave him to his fate! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 49 

Turn not away in cold disdain ! 
— Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? 
How art thou changed ! and must I bear 
That frown, that stern, averted air? 
What mean they?" 

" Maiden, need'st thou ask ? 
These features wear no specious mask ! 
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye 
With characters of mystery ? 
This — this is anguish! — can it be? 
And plead'st thou for thy sire to me ? 
Know though thy prayers a death-pang give, 
He must not meet my sight — and live! 
Well may'st thou shudder! — of the band 
Who watch in secret o'er the land, 
Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, 
Th' unknown, th' unslumbering — I am one! 
My arm defend him! — what were then 
Each vow that binds the souls of men, 
Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal'd 
By rites that may not be reveal'd? 
— A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, 
A passing sound, forgot when gone ! 
Nay, shrink not from me — I would fly. 
That he by other hands may die ! 
What ! think'st thou I would live to trace 
Abhorrence in that angel-face ? 
Beside thee should the lover stand, 
The father's life-blood on his brand? 
No ! 1 have bade my home adieu. 
For other scenes mine eyes must view ; 
YoL. III. 5 



50 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Look on me, love ! now all is known, 
O Ella! must I fly alone?" 

But she was changed ; scarce heaved her breath , 
She stood like one prepared for death, 
And wept no more; then, casting down 
From her fair brows the nuptial crown. 
As joy's last vision from her heart. 
Cried, with sad firmness, " We must part ! 
'Tis past — these bridal flowers, so frail 
They may not brook one stormy gale, 
Survive — too dear as still thou art. 
Each hope they imaged — we must part! 
One struggle yet — and all is o'er — 
We love — and may we meet no more! 
Oh ! little know'st thou of the power 
Affection lends in danger's hour. 
To deem that fate should thus divide 
My footsteps from a father's side ! 
Speed thou to other shores — I go 
To share his wanderings arid his woe; 
Where'er his path of thorns may lead, 
W^hate'er his doom, by Heaven decreed. 
If there be guardian powers above, 
To nerve the heart of filial love; 
If courage may be won by prayer, 
Or strength by duty — I can bear! 
Farewell! — though in that sound be years 
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears. 
Though the soul vibrate to its knell 
Of joys departed — yet, farewell!" 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 51 

Was this the maid who seem'd, erevvhile. 
Born but to meet life's vernal smile ? 
A being, almost on the wing, 
As an embodied breeze of spring? 
A child of beauty and of bliss, 
Sent from some purer sphere to this. 
Not, in her exile, to sustain 
The trial of one earthly pain ; 
But, as a sunbeam, on to move, 
Wak'ning all hearts to joy and love? 
That airy form, with footsteps free, 
And radiant glance — could this be she? 
From her fair cheek the rose was gone. 
Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flow^n. 
Of all its vivid glow bereft, 
Each playful" charm her lip had left; 
But what were these? on that young face^ 
Far nobler beauty fiU'd their place ! 
'Twas not the pride that scorns to bend. 
Though all the bolts of Heaven descend; 
Not the fierce grandeur of despair. 
That half exults its fate to dare ; 
Nor that wild energy which leads 
Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds : 
Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued. 
Was fix'd in silent fortitude ; 
Not in its haughty strength elate. 
But calmly, mournfully sedate. 
'Twas strange, yet lovely to behold 
That spirit in so fair a mould, 
As if a rose-tree's tender form. 
Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. 



52 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

One look she cast, where firmness strove 
With the deep pangs of parting love; 
One tear a moment in her eye 
Dimm'd the pure light of constancy ; 
And pressing, as to still her heart. 
She turn'd in silence to depart. 
But U]ric, as to frenzy wrought, 
Then started from his trance of thought: 
"Stay thee, oh, stay! — it must not be — 
All, all were well resign'd for thee ! 
Stay ! till my soul each vow disown. 
But those which make me thine alone ! 
If there be guilt — there is no shrine 
More holy than that heart of thine ; 
There be my crime absolved — I take 
The cup of shame for thy dear sake. • 
Of shame ! oh no ! to virtue true. 
Where thou art, there is glory too ! 
Go now ! and to thy sire impart. 
He hath a shield in Ulric's heart. 
And thou a home! — remain, or flee, 
In life, in death — I follow thee!" 

" There shall not rest one cloud of shame. 
Oh Ulric ! on thy lofty name ; 
There shall not one accusing word 
Against thy spotless faith be heard ! 
Thy path is where the brave rush on. 
Thy course must be where palms are won ; 
Where banners wave, and falchions glare. 
Son of the mighty ! be thou there ! 
Think on the glorious names that shine 
Along thy sire's majestic line ; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 53 

Oh, last of that illustrious race ! 
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace ! 
Well, well I know each grief, each pain. 
Thy spirit nobly could sustain : 
E'en I unshrinking see them near, 
And what hast thou to do with fear? 
But when hath warriors calmly borne 
The cold and bitter smile of scorn ? 
'Tis not for thee — thy soul hath force 
To cope with all things — but remorse; 
And this my brightest thought shall be. 
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. 
Go! break thou not one solemn vow! 
Closed be the fearful conflict now ; 
Go ! but forget not how my heart 
Still at thy name will proudly start. 
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell. 
Thy deeds of glory — fare thee well ! " 

And thus they parted — why recall 
The scene of anguish known to all ? 
The burst of tears, the blush of pride. 
That fain those fruitless tears would hide; 
The lingering look, the last embrace. 
Oh ! what avails it to retrace ? 
They parted — in that bitter word 
A thousand tones of grief are heard. 
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest 
In the far ceils of every breast; 
Who hath not known, who shall not know 
That keen, yet most familiar woe 1 
5* 



54 A TALE OP THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Where'er affection's home is found. 

It meets her on the holy ground; 

The cloud of every summer hour, 

The canker-worm of every flower ; 

Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove. 

That mortal agony of love? 

The autumn moon slept bright and still 
On fading wood and purple hill; 
The vintager had hush'd his lay. 
The fisher shunn'd the blaze of day. 
And silence, o'er each green recess. 
Brooded in misty sultriness. 
But soon a low and measured sound 
Broke on the deep repose around; 
From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar 
Bade the stream ripple to the shore. 
Sweet was that sound of waves which parted 
The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; 
And smoothly seem'd the bark to glide, 
And brightly flow'd the reckless tide. 
Though, mingling with its current, fell 
The last warm tears of love's farewell. 



Part II. 

Sweet is the gloom of forest shades. 
Their pillar'd walks and dim arcades. 
With all the thousand flowers that blow, 
A waste of loveliness, below. 
To him whose soul the world would fly, 
For Nature's lonely majesty : 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 55 

To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes. 

To lover, lost in fairy dreams. 

To hermit, whose prophetic thought 

By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, 

And, in the visions of his rest. 

Held bright communion with the blest ; 

'Tis sweet, but solemn — there alike 

Silence and sound with awe can strike. 

The deep Eolian murmur made 

By sighing breeze and rustling shade, 

And cavern'd fountain gushing nigh, 

And wild-bee's plaintive lullaby. 

Or the dead stillness of the bowers. 

When dark the summer-tempest lowers; 

When silent Nature seems to wait 

The gathering Thunder's voice of fate, 

When the aspen scarcely waves in air, 

And the clouds collect for the lightning's glare, 

Each, each alike is awful there. 

And thrills the soul with feelings high. 

As some majestic harmony. 

But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced 
Each green retreat, in breathless haste, 
Young Ella linger'd not, to hear 
The wood-notes, lost on mourner's ear; 
The shivering leaf, the breeze's play, 
The fountain's gush, the wild-bird's lay ; 
These charm not now — her sire she sought, 
With trembling frame, with anxious thought, 
And, starting, if a forest deer, 
But moved the rustling branches near. 
First felt that innocence may fear. 



56 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

She reach'd a lone and shadowy dell. 
Where the free sunbeam never fell ; 
'Twas twilight there at summer-noon. 
Deep night beneath the harvest-moon. 
And scarce might one bright star be seen 
Gleaming the tangled boughs between; 
For many a giant rock around, 
Dark, in terrific grandeur, frown'd, 
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, 
Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky; 
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, 
JVe'er to Heaven's beam one sparkle gave. 
And the wild-flower, on its brink that grew. 
Caught not from day one glowing hue. 

'Twas said, some fearful deed untold. 
Had stain'd that scene in days of old; 
Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown 
A shade yet deeper than its own. 
And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom. 
Perchance above some victim's tomb, 
O'ergrown with ivy and with moss. 
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, 
Which haply silent record bore. 
Of guilt and penitence of yore. 

Who by that holy sign was kneeling. 
With brow unutter'd pangs revealing, 
Hands clasp'd convulsively in prayer. 
And lifted eyes and streaming hair. 
And cheek, all paie as marble mould. 
Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold ? 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 57 

Was it some image of despair. 

Still fix'd that stamp of woe to bear? 

— Oh ! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought. 

To speak such agonies of thought ! 

Those death-like features gave to view 

A mortal's pangs, too deep and true ! 

Starting he rose, with frenzied eye. 

As Ella's hurried step drew nigh ; 

He turn'd, with aspect darkly wild. 

Trembling he stood — before his child! 

On, with a burst of tears, she sprung. 

And to her father's bosom clung. 

" Away ! what seek'st thou here 1 " he cried, 
"Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride? 
Hence, leave me, leave me to await, 
In solitude, the storm of Fate ; 
Thou know'st not what my doom may be. 
Ere evening comes in peace to thee." 

" My father ! shall the joyous throng 
Swell high for me the bridal song? 
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, 
The festal garland bind my head. 
And thou, in grief, in peril, roam. 
And make the wilderness thy home? 
No ! I am here, with thee to share 
All suffering mortal strength may bear; 
And, oh ! whate'er thy foes decree. 
In life, in death, in chains, or free; 
Well, well I feel, in thee secure. 
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!" 



68 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Then was there meaning in his look, 
Which deep that trusting spirit shook ; 
So wildly did each glance express 
The strife of shame and bitterness, 
As thus he spoke : " Fond dreams, oh hence 1 
Is this the mien of Innocence ? 
This furrow'd brow, this restless eye. 
Read thou this fearful tale — and fly! 
Is it enough? or must I seek 
For loords, the tale of guilt to speak? 
Then be it so — I will not doom 
Thy youth to wither in its bloom ; 
I will not see thy tender frame 
Bow'd to the earth with fear and shame 
No! though I teach thee to abhor 
The sire, so fondly loved before ; 
Though the dread effort rend my breast. 
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest ! 
Oh ! bitter penance ! thou wilt turn 
Away in horror and in scorn ; 
Thy looks, that still through all the past 
Affection's gentlest beams have cast, 
As lightning on my heart will fall. 
And I must mark and bear it all ! 
Yet though of life's best ties bereaved. 
Thou shalt not, must not be deceived ! 
I linger — let me speed the tale, 
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. 
Why should I falter thus, to tell 
What Heaven so long hath known too well^ 
Yes ! though from mortal sight conceal'd. 
There hath a brother's blood appeal'd! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 59 

He died — 'twas not where banners wave 
And war-steeds trample on the brave; 
He died — it was in Holy Land; 
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand; 
He sleeps not with his sires at rest. 
With trophied shield and knightly crest ; 
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, 

— But I can tell thee where he lies! 
It was a wild and savage spot, 

But once beheld — and ne'er forgot ! 
I see it now — that haunted scene 
My spirit's dwelling still hath been ; 
And he is there — I see him laid 
Beneath that palm-tree's lonely shade. 
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh, 
Bears witness with its crimson dve ! 
I see th' accusing glance he raised, 
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed ; 

— Ne'er will that parting look forgive! 
I still behold it — and I live! 

I live ! from hope, from mercy driven, 
A mark for all the shafts „of Heaven ! 

"Yet had I wrongs: by fraud he won 
My birth-right — and my child, my son. 
Heir to high name, high fortune born. 
Was doom'd to penury and scorn. 
An alien 'midst his fathers' halls. 
An exile from his native walls. 
Could I bear this? — the rankling thought, 
Deep, dark, wdthin my bosom wrought ; 
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, 
Lurk'd in my infant's rosy smile. 



60 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL, 

And when his accents Usp'd my name. 
They woke my inmost heart to flame ! 
I struggled — are there evil powers 
That claim their own ascendant hours? 
— O ! what should thine unspotted soul 
Or know or fear of their control ? 
Why on the fearful conflict dwell? 
Vainly I struggled — and I fell : 
Cast down from every hope of bliss, 
Too well thou know'st to what abyss! 

"'Twas done — that moment hurried bv 
To darken all eternity ! 
Years roll'd away, long, evil years, 
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears ; 
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain'd. 
By the deep guilt my soul which stain'd; 
For, long a captive in the lands 
Where Arabs tread their burning sands. 
The haunted midnight of the mind 
Was round me while in chains I pined. 
By all forgotten save by one 
Dread presence — which 1 could not shun. 

" How oft, when o'er the silent waste 
Nor path nor land-mark might be traced. 
When slumbering by the watch-fire's ray, 
The Wanderers of the Desert lay. 
And stars, as o'er an ocean, shone. 
Vigil I kept — but not alone ! 
That form, that image from the dead. 
Still walk'd the wild with soundless tread! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 61 

I've seen it in the fiery blast, 
I 've seen it where the sand-storms pass'd ; 
Beside the Desert's fount it stood, 
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood ; 
And e'en when viewless, by the fear 
Curdling my veins, I knew 'twas near! 
— fVas near ! — I feel th' unearthly thrill, 
Its power is on my spirit still ! 
A mystic influence, undefined. 
The spell, the shadow of my mind ! 

"Wilt thou yet linger? — time speeds on; 
One last farewell, and then begone ! 
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow. 
And let me read thine aspect now ! 
No ! stay thee yet, and learn the meed 
Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. 
Slow came the day that broke my chain 
But I at length was free again ; 
And freedom brings a burst of joy. 
E'en guilt itself can scarce destroy. 
I thought upon my own fair towers. 
My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers. 
And, in a father's visions press'd 
Thee and thy brother to my breast. 

"'Twas but in visions — canst thou yet 
Recall the moment when we met ? 
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, 
Thy arms around me fondly clung ; 
Scarce aught than infant-seraph less, 
Seem'd thy pure childhood's loveliness ; 

Vol. III. 6 



62 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

But he was gone — that son, for whom 
I rush'd on guilt's eternal doom, 
He for whose sake alone were given 
My peace on earth, my hope in Heaven, 
He met me not. — A ruthless hand. 
Whose name with terror fill'd the land. 
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild, 
Had reft the father of his child. 
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, 
Full on that cherish'd scion burst. 
Unknown his fate. — No parent nigh. 
My boy ! my first-born ! didst thou die ? 
Or did they spare thee for a life 
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife ? 
Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, 
A wanderer, lost without a guide ? 
Oh ! to thy fate's mysterious gloom 
Blest were the darkness of the tomb ! 

"Ella! 'tis done — my guilty heart 
Before thee all unveil'd — depart ! 
Few pangs 't will cost thee now to fly 
From one so stain'd, so lost, as I ; 
Yet peace to thine untainted breast, 
E'en though it hate me — be thou blest! 
Farewell ! thou shalt not linger here ; 
E'en now th' avenger may be near : 
Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare ; 
The dagger, may be ambush'd there ; 
One hour — and haply all is o'er. 
And we must m.eet on earth no more ; 
No, nor beyond! — to those pure skies 
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 63 

Heaven's will for ever parts our lot, 
Yet, oh ! my child ! abhor me not ! 
Speak once ! to soothe this broken heart, 
Speak to me once ! and then depart ! " 

But still — as if each pulse were dead, 
Mute — as the power of speech were fled. 
Pale — as if life-blood ceased to warm 
The marble beauty of her form ; 
On the dark rock she lean'd her head. 
That seem'd as there 'twere riveted, 
And dropt the hands, till then which press'd 
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. 
There beam'd no tear-drop in her eye. 
And from her lip there breathed no sigh. 
And on her brow no trace there dwelt. 
That told she suffer'd or she felt. 
All that once glow'd, or smiled, or beam'd. 
Now fix'd, and quench'd, and frozen seem'd; 
And long her sire, in wild dismay, 
Deem'd her pure spirit pass'd away. 

But life return'd. O'er that cold frame 
One deep convulsive shudder came, 
And a faint light her eye relumed. 
And sad resolve her mien assumed ; 
But there was horror in the gaze, 
Which yet to his she dare not raise, 
And her sad accents, wild and low. 
As rising from a depth of woe. 
At first with hurried trembling broke. 
But gather'd firmness as she spoke. 



64 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

"I leave thee not — whate'er betide. 
My footstep shall not quit thy side ; 
Pangs, keen as death, my soul may thrill, 
But yet thou art my father still ! 
And, oh ! if stain'd by guilty deed. 
For some kind spirit, tenfold need. 
To speak of Heaven's absolving love. 
And waft desponding thought above. 
Is there not power in mercy's wave. 
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? 
Is there not balm to heal despair. 
In tears, in penitence, in prayer? 
My father ! kneel at His pure shrine 
Who died to expiate guilt like thine. 
Weep — and my tears with thine shall blend, 
Pray — while my prayers with thine ascend. 
And, as our mingling sorrows rise. 
Heaven will relent, though earth despise ! " 

" My child, my child ! these bursting tears. 
The first mine eyes have shed for years. 
Though deepest conflicts they express. 
Yet flow not all in bitterness ! 
Oh ! thou hast bid a wither'd heart 
From desolation's slumber start. 
Thy voice of pity and of love 
Seems o'er its icy depths to move 
E'en as a breeze of health, which brings 
Life, hope, and heahng, on its wings. 
And there is mercy yet ! I feel 
Its influence o'er my spirit steal ; 
How welcome were each pang below, 
[f guilt might be atoned by woe ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 65 

Think'st thou I yet may be forgiven ? 

Shall prayers unclose the gate of Heaven ? 

Oh ! if it yet avail to plead, 

If judgment be not yet decreed, 

Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry. 

Till pardon shall be seal'd on high ! 

Yet, yet I shrink ! — v^^ill Mercy shed 

Her dews upon this fallen head? 

— Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free 

Descend forgiveness, won by thee!" 

They knelt: — before the Cross, that sign 
Of love eternal and divine ; 
That symbol, which so long hath stood 
A rock of strength, on time's dark flood, 
Clasp'd by despairing hands, and laved 
By the warm tears of nations saved ; 
In one deep prayer their spirits blent. 
The guilty and the innocent ; 
Youth, pure as if from Heaven its birth, 
Age, soil'd with every stain of earth, 
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry. 
One sacrifice of agony. 

Oh ! blest, though bitter be their source, 
Though dark the fountain of remorse. 
Blest are the tears which pour from thence, 
Th' atoning stream of penitence ! 
And let not pity check the tide 
By which the heart is purified ; 
Let not vain comfort turn its course, 
Or timid love repress its force ! 
6* 



CO A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Go ! bind the flood, whose waves expand, 
To bear luxuriance o'er the land ; 
Forbid the life-restoring rains 
To fall on Afric's burning plains; 
Close up the fount that gush'd to cheer 

The pilgrim o'er the waste who trode 
But check thou not one holy tear, 

Which Penitence devotes to God ! 

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne'er 
Was roused by huntsman's bugle there ; 
So rude, that scarce might human eye 
Sustain their dread sublimity; 
So awful, that the timid swain, 
Nurtured amidst their dark domain, 
Had peopled, wath unearthly forms. 
Their mists, their forests, and their storms; 
She, whose blue eye, of laughing light. 
Once made each festal scene more bright; 
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, 
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest. 
By torrent-wave, and mountain-brow. 
Is wandering as an outcast now. 
To share with Lindheim's fallen chief, 
His shame, his terror, and his grief. 

Hast thou not mark'd the ruin's flower. 

That blooms in solitary grace, 
And, faithful to its mouldering tower, 

Waves in the banner's place? 
From those grey haunts renown hath pass'd. 
Time wins his heritage at last ; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 67 

This clay of glory hath gone by, 
With all its pomp and minstrelsy ; 
Yet still the flower of golden hues 
There lov^es its fragrance to diffuse, 
To fallen and forsaken things 
With constancy unalter'd clings, 
And, smiling o'er the wreck of state. 
With beauty clothes the desolate. 

E'en such was she, the fair-hair'd maid. 
In all her light of youth array'd, 
Forsaking every joy below. 
To soothe a guilty parent's woe, 
And clinging thus, in beauty's prime. 
To the dark ruin made by crime. 
Oh ! ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyes 
Smile on a purer sacrifice ; 
Ne'er did young love, at duty's shrine, 
More nobly brighter hopes resign ! 
O'er her own pangs she brooded not. 
Nor sunk beneath her bitter lot; 
No! that pure spirit's lofty worth 
Still rose more buoyantly from earth, 
And drew from an eternal source 
Its gentle, yet triumphant force ; 
Roused by affliction's chastening might 
To energies more calmly bright. 
Like the wild harp of airy sigh. 
Woke by the storm to harmony ! 
He that in mountain holds hath sought 
A refuge for unconquer'd thought, 
A charter'd home, where Freedom's child 
Might rear her altars in the wild. 



68 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

And fix her quenchless torch on high, 

A beacon for Eternity ; 

Or they, whose martyr-spirits wage 

Proud war with Persecution's rage. 

And to the deserts bear the faith 

That bids them smile on chains and death; 

Well may they draw, from all around, 

Of grandeur clothed in form and sound. 

From the deep power of earth and sky. 

Wild nature's might of majesty. 

Strong energies, immortal fires. 

High hopes, magnificent desires ! 

But dark, terrific, and austere. 
To him doth Nature's mien appear, 
Who, 'midst her wilds, would seek repose 
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! 
For him the wind hath music dread, 
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; 
The forest's whisper breathes a tone. 
Appalling, as from worlds unknown ; 
The mystic gloom of wood and cave 
Is fiU'd with shadows of the grave ; 
In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart 
A blaze that seems to search his heart; 
The pure, eternal stars of night, 
Upbraid him with their silent light. 
And the dread spirit, which pervades 
And hallows earth's most lonely shades. 
In every scene, in every hour, 
Surrounds him with chastising power. 
With nameless fear his soul to thrill, 
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. G9 

'Tvvas the chilly close of an Autumn day, 
And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way, 
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, 
Foretold the tempest gathering round. 
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread 
With a tinge of wild and stormy red, 
That seem'd, through the twilight forest bowers 
Like the glare of a city's blazing towers; 
But they, who far from cities fled. 
And shrunk from the print of human tread. 
Had reach'd a desert-scene unknown, 
So strangely wild, so deeply lone. 
That a nameless feeling, unconfess'd 
And undefined, their souls oppress'd. 
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl'd. 
Lay like the ruins of a world. 
Left by an earthquake's final throes 
In deep and desolate repose ; 
Things of eternity, whose forms 
Bore record of ten thousand storms! 
While, rearing its colossal crest 
In sullen grandeur o'er the rest. 
One, like a pillar, vast and rude, 
Stood monarch of the solitude. 
Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand 
Th' enduring monument was plann'd: 
Or Odin's sons, in days gone by. 
Had shaped its rough immensity, 
To rear, 'midst mountain, rock, and wood, 
A temple meet for rites of blood. 
But they were gone, who might have told 
That secret of the times of old, 



70 A TALE OF TKE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

And there, in silent scorn, it frown'd, 
O'er all its vast coevals round. 
Darkly those giant masses lower'd, 
Countless and motionless they tower'd; 
No wild-flower o'er their summits hung, 
No fountain from their caverns sprung; 
Yet ever on the wanderers' ear 
Murmur'd a sound of waters near. 
With music deep of lulling falls. 
And louder gush, at intervals. 
Unknown its source — nor spring nor stream 
Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam. 
But ceaselevss, from its hidden caves, 
Arose that mystic voice of waves. (1) 
Yet bosom'd 'midst that savage scene. 
One chosen spot of gentler mien 
Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye 
Of shelter from the tempest nigh. 
Glad sight ! the ivied cross it bore. 
The sculptured saint that crown'd its door; 
Less welcome now were monarch's dome. 
Than that low cell, some hermit's home. 
Thither the outcasts bent their way. 
By the last lingering gleam of day. 
When from a cavern'd rock, which cast 
Deep shadows o'er them as they pass'd, 
A form, a warrior-form of might. 
As from earth's bosom, sprung to sight. 
His port was lofty — yet the heart 
Shrunk from him with recoiling start; 
His mien was youthful — yet his face 
Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace r 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 71 

Nor chivalrous, nor tender thought, 
Its traces on his brow had wrought; 
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye. 
But calm and cold severity, 
A spirit haughtily au.stere. 
Stranger to pity as to fear. 
It seem'd as pride had thrown a veil 
O'er that dark brow and visage pale, 
Leaving the searcher nought to guess. 
All was so fix'd and passionless. 

He spoke — and they who heard the tone 
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. 
"I've sought thee far in forest bowers, 
I've sought thee long in peopled towers, 
I've borne the dagger of th' Unknown" 
Through scenes explored by me alone ; 
My search is closed — nor toils, nor fears. 
Repel the servant of the Seers; 
We meet — 'tis vain to strive or fly, 
Albert of Lindheim — thou must die!" 

Then with clasp'd h s the fair-hair'd maid 
Sunk at his feet and wildly pray'd : — 

** Stay, stay thee ! sheathe that lifted steel ! 
Oh ! thou art human, and canst feel ! 
Hear me! if e'er 'twas thine to prove 
The blessing of a parent's love ; 
By thine own father's hoary hair, 
By her who gave thee being, spare ! 
Did they not, o'er thy infant years, 
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears ! 



72. A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers. 
As thou would^st hope for grace to theirs!" 

But cold th'' Avengers look remained. 
His brow its rigid calm maintained : 
"Maiden! 'tis vain — my bosom ne'er 
Was conscious of a parent's care; 
The nurture of my infant years 
Froze in my soul the source of tears; 
'Tis not for me to pause or melt, 
Or feel as happier hearts have felt. 
Away I the hour of fate goes by. 
Thy prayers are fruitless — he must die!" 

" Rise, Ella ! rise," with steadfast brow 
The father spoke ; unshrinking now. 
As if from heaven a martyr's strength 
Had settled on his soul at length ; 
'* Kneel thou no more, my noble child. 
Thou by no taint of guilt defiled ; 
Kneel not to man ! — for mortal prayer. 
Oh ! when did mortal vengeance spare ? 
Since hope of earthly aid is flown, 
Lift thy pure hands to Heaven alone. 
And know, to calm thy suffering heart. 
My spirit is resign'd to part ; 
Trusting in Him, who reads and knows 
This guilty breast, with all its woes. 
Rise ! I would bless thee once again. 
Be still, be firm — for all is vain!" 

And she was still — she heard him not. 
Her prayers were hush'd — her pangs forgot; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 73 

All thought, all memory pass'd away, 

Silent and motionless she lay, 

In a brief death, a blest suspense, 

Alike of agony and sense. 

She saw not when the dagger gleam'd 

In the last red light from the west that stream'd : 

She mark'd not when the life-blood's flow 

Came rushing to the mortal blow; 

While, unresisting, sunk her sire. 

Yet gather'd firmness to expire, 

Mingling a warrior's courage high, 

With a penitent's humility. 

And o'er him there th' Avenger stood. 

And watch'd the victim's ebbing blood. 

Still calm, as if his faithful hand 

Had but obey'd some just command. 

Some power, whose stern, yet righteous will, 

He deem'd it virtue to fulfil. 

And triumph'd, when the palm was won. 

For duty's task austerely done. 

But a feeling dread, and undefined, 
A mystic presage of the mind. 
With strange and sudden impulse ran 
Chill through the heart of the dying man, 
And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, 
And it seem'd as fear suspended death, 
And Nature from her terrors drew 
Fresh energy, and vigour new. 

" Thou said'st thy lonely bosom ne'er 
Was conscious of a parent's care ; 
Vol. III. ^7 



74 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years, 
Froze in thy soul the source of tears: 
The time will come, when thou, with me. 
The judgment-throne of God wilt see. 
Oh ! by thy hopes of mercy, then, 
By His blest love who died for men, 
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow. 
Avenger 1 I adjure thee now ! 
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel. 
Thy lineage and thy name reveal. 
And haste thee ! for his closing ear 
Hath little more on earth to hear — 
Haste! for the spirit, almost flown. 
Is lingering for thy words alone." 

Then first a shade, resembling fear. 
Passed o*er th' Avenger's mien austere; 
A nameless awe his features cross'd. 
Soon in their haughty coldness lost. 

" What wouldst thou ? Ask the rock and wild, 
And bid them tell thee of their child! 
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, 
Whose tempests were his lullabies ! 
His chambers were the cave and wood. 
His fosterers men of wrath and blood; 
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven. 
By wrongs to desperation driven ! 
Who, in their pupil, now could trace 
The features of a nobler race? 
Yet such was mine! — if one who cast 
A look of anguish o'er the past, 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 75 

Bore faithful record on the day. 
When penitent in death he lay. 
But still deep shades my prospects veil. 
He died — and told but half the tale; 
With him it sleeps — I only know 
Enough for stern and silent woe. 
For vain ambition's deep regret. 
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, 
For dreams of pride that vainly tell 
How high a lot had suited well 
The heir of some illustrious line. 
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!** 

Then swift through Albert's bosom pass'd 
One pang, the keenest and the last, 
Ere with his spirit fled the fears, 
The sorrows, and the pangs of years, 
And, while his grey hairs swept the dust. 
Faltering he murmur'd, "Heaven is just! 
For thee that deed of guilt was done, 
By thee avenged, my Son! my Son!" 

The day was closed — the moonbeam shed 
Light on the living and the dead. 
And as through rolling clouds it broke, 
Young Ella from her trance awoke — 
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know 
E'en more than all an orphan's woe. 
Oh! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene 
With beauty clothe a sadder scene ! 
There, cold in death, the father slept. 
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept 1 



76 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Yes! she might weep — but one stood nigh. 

With horror in his tearless eye. 

That eye which ne'er again shall close 

In the deep quiet of repose ; 

No more on earth beholding aught, 

Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought. 

But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid 

His deeper woe had scarce survey 'd. 

Till his wild voice reveaPd a tale. 

Which seem'd to bid the Heavens turn pale '. 

He call'd her, " Sister ! " and the word 

In anguish breathed, in terror heard, 

Reveal'd enough — all else were weak. 

That sound a thousand pangs could speak. 

He knelt beside that breathless clay, 

W^hich, fix'd in utter stillness, lay — 

Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace. 

Each line of that unconscious face ; 

Knelt, till his eye could bear no more. 

Those marble features to explore ; 

Then, starting, turning, as to shun 

The image thus by Memory won, 

A wild farewell to her he bade. 

Who by the dead in silence pray'd. 

And, frenzied by his bitter doom, 

Fled thence — to find all earth a tomb! 

Days pass'd away! — and Rhine's fair shore 
In the light of summer smiled once more; 
The vines were purpling on the hill. 
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still 
There came a bark up the noble stream. 
With pennons that shed a golden gleam. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 77 

W tth the flash of arms, and the voice of song. 

Gliding triumphantly along ; 

For warrior-forms were glittering there, 

Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air 

And as the tones of oar and wave 

Their measured cadence mingling gave, 

'Twas thus th' exulting chorus rose, 

While many an echo swell'd the close: — 

From the fields where dead and dying, 
On their battle-bier are lying, 
Where the blood unstanch'd is gushing. 
Where the steed unchecked is rushing, 
Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, 
Ere the spirit yet be parted ; 
Where each breath of Heaven is swaying 
Knightly plumes and banners playing. 
And the clarion's music swelling 
Calls the vulture from his dwelling; 
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line. 
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine ! 
To his own fair woods, enclosing 
Vales in sunny peace reposing. 
Where his native stream is laving 
Banks, with golden harvests waving. 
And the summer light is sleeping 
On the grape, through tendrils peeping; 
To the halls where harps are ringing. 
Bards the praise of warriors singing. 
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly. 
Joyous voices mingling sweetly ; 
7* 



78 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, 
And the wine-cup brightly flowing. 
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line. 
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine. 

He came — he sought his Ella's bowers. 
He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers; 
But voice and footstep thence had fled. 
As from the dwellings of the dead, 
And the sounds of human joy and woe 
Gave place to the moan of the wave below. 
The banner still the rampart crown'd. 
But the tall rank grass waved thick around ; 
Still hung the arms of a race gone by. 
In the blazon'd halls of their ancestry ; 
But they caught no more, at fall of night. 
The wavering flash of the torch's light ; 
And they sent their echoes forth no more. 
To the Minnesinger's (2) tuneful lore, 
For the hands that touch'd the harp were gone. 
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ; 
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still. 
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill. 
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan. 
For life, and power, and beauty gone. 

The warrior turn'd from that silent scene. 
Where a voice of woe had welcome been. 
And his beart was heavy with boding thought. 
As the forest-paths alone he sought. 
He reach'd a convent's fane, that stood 
Deep bosom'd in luxuriant wood; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 79 

Still, solemn, fair — it seem'd a spot 
Where earthly care might be all forgot. 
And sounds and dreams of Heaven alone. 
To musing spirit might be known. 

And sweet e'en then were the sounds that rose 
On the holy and profound repose. 
Oh ! they came o'er the warrior's breast, 
Like a glorious anthem of the blest ; 
And fear and sorrow died away. 
Before the full, majestic lay. 
He enter'd the secluded fane, 
Which sent forth that inspiring strain; 
He gazed — the hallo w'd pile's array 
Was that of some high festal day ; 
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound. 
Flowers of all scents were strew'd around ; 
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, 
Blest on the altar to smile and die ; 
And a fragrant cloud from the censer's breath 
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; 
And still the peal of choral song 
Swell'd the resounding aisles along; 
Wakening, in its triumphant flow. 
Deep echoes from the graves below. 

Why, from its woodland birthplace torn. 
Doth summer's rose that scene adorn? 
Why breathes the incense to the sky ? 
Why swells th'exulting harmony ? 
— And see'st thou not yon form, so light. 
It seems half floating on the sight. 



80 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

As if the whisper of a gale, 

That did but wave its snowy veil, 

Might bear it from the earth afar, 

A lovely, but receding star? 

Know, that devotion's shrine, e'en now. 

Receives that youthful vestal's vow: 

For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, 

A jubilee of sacrifice ! 

Mark yet a moment ! from her brow 

Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow. 

Ere yet a darker mantle hide 

The charms to Heaven thus sanctified ; 

Stay thee ! and catch their parting gleam. 

That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream. 

A moment ! oh ! to Ulric's soul 

Poised between hope and fear's control, 

What slow, unmeasured hours went by. 

Ere yet suspense grew certainty ; 

It came at length — once more that face 

Reveal'd to man its mournful grace ; 

A sunbeam on its features fell. 

As if to bear the world's farewell ; 

And doubt was o'er — his heart grew chill — 

'Twas she — though changed — 'twas Ella still! 

Though now her once-rejoicing mien 

Was deeply, mournfully serene ; 

Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded, 

And the young cheek beneath had faded. 

Well, well he knew the form, which cast 

Light on his soul through all the past ! 

'Twas with him on the battle plain, 

'Twas with him on the stormy main. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 81 

'Twas in his visions, when the shield 
Pillow'd his head on tented field ; 
'Twas a bright beam that led him on 
Where'er a triumph might be won, 
In danger as in glory nigh. 
An angel-guide to victory ! 

She caught his pale bewildered gaze 
Of grief half lost in fix'd amaze — 
Was it some vain illusion, wrought 
By frenzy of impassion'd thought ? 
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power 
To summon, in her wandering hour ? 
No ! it was he ! the lost, the mourn'd, 
Too deeply loved, too late returned ! 

A fever'd blush, a sudden start. 
Spoke the last weakness of her heart : 
'Twas vanquish'd soon — the hectic red 
A moment flush'd her cheek, and fled. 
Once more serene — her steadfast eye 
Look'd up as to Eternity ; 
Then gaz'd on Ulric with an air, 
That said — the home of Love is there! 

Yes! there alone it smiled for him, 
W^hose eye before that look grew dim ; 
Not long 'twas his e'en thus to view 
The beauty of its calm adieu ; 
Soon o'er those features, brightly pale. 
Was cast th' impenetrable veil ; 
And, if one human sigh were given 
By the pure bosom vow'd to Heaven, 



82 A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

'Twas lost, as many a murmiir'd sound 
Of grief, *' not loud, but deep," is drown'd. 
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise. 
To tell the calm untroubled skies, 
That earth hath banish'd care and woe, 
And man holds festivals below ! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

The original of the scene here described is presented by the 
mountain called the Feldberg-, in the Berg-strasse : — " Des masses 
enormes de rochers, entassees I'une sur I'autre depuis le sommet 
de la montagne, jusqu'a son pied, viennent y presenter un aspect 
superbe qu' aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, 
dit-on, des geans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des mon- 
tagnes, lancerent les uns sur les autres ces enormes masses de 
rochers. On arrive, avec beau coup de peine, jusqji'au sommet 
du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe a cote de cette 
chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, 
qui parait venir d'un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a 
beau decendre, en se glissant a travers les ouvertures qui s'y 
trouvent, on ne decouvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite 
Riesensaule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu'a la moitie de la 
montagne ; c'est un bloc de granit taille, d'une longueur de 30 
pieds et d'un diametre de 4 pieds. II y a plus de probabilite de 
croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une 
colonne pour I'eriger en I'honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de 
prettendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains 
aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 83 

voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc, d'une forme presque carree 
qu' on appelle Riesenaltar (autel du geant) qui, a en ju|rer par 
sa grosseur et sa forme, etait destine a servir de piedestal a la 
coloune susdite." Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin. 

Note 2. 

Minnesingers (bards of love), the appellation of the German 
minstrels in the Middle Affes. 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

AN UNFINISHED POEM. 



I. 

Beings of brighter worlds ! that rise at times 
As phantoms, with ideal beauty fraught, 
In those orief visions of celestial climes, 
Which pass, like sunbeams, o'er the realms of thought. 
Dwell ye around us? — are ye hovering nigh, 
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air? 
And in deep solitudes, where human eye 
Can trace no step. Immortals ! are ye there ? 
Oh! who can tell? — what power, but Death alone, 
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world un- 
known ? 

II. 

But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers 

Of Eden wither'd, when reveal'd ye shone. 

In all your brightness, 'midst those holy bowers — 

Holy, but not unfading, as your own ! 

While He, the child of that primeval soil. 

With you its paths in high communion trode, 

His glory yet undimm'd by guilt or toil. 

And beaming in the image of his God. 

And his pure spirit glowing from the sky. 

Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 85 

III. 

Then, hapiy, mortal and celestial lays, 
Mingling their tones, from Nature's temple rose, 
When nought hut that majestic song of praise 
Broke on the sanctity of night's repose, 
With music since unheard : and man might trace, 
By stream and vale, in deep embow'ring shade, 
Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place. 
The footsteps of th' Omnipotent, who made 
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast 
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass'd. 

IV. 

Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven ! 
Your aspect changed for man; in that dread hour. 
When from his paradise the alien driven. 
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower, 
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell, 
With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame. 
And his first cry of misery was — ^' Farev^ell ! " 
His heart's first anguish, exile : he became 
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot 
Is still for happier lands to pine — and reach them not. 

V. 

W^here now the chosen bowers that once beheld 
Delight and Love their first bright Sabbath keep? 
From all its founts the worlds of waters swell'd, 
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep ! 
For He, to whom the elements are slaves. 
In wrath unchain'd the oceans of the cloud, 
Vol. III. — 8 



86 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

And heaved the abyss beneath; till waves on waves 

Folded creation in their mighty shroud, 

Then left the earth a solitude, o'erspread 

With its own awful wreck — a desert of the dead. 

VI. 

But onward flow'd life's busy course again, 
And rolling ages with them bore away — 
As to be lost amidst the boundless main. 
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey — 
The hallow'd lore of old — the guiding light 
Left by tradition to the sons of earth, 
And the blest memory of each sacred rite, 
Known in the region of their father's birth. 
When in each breeze around his fair abode 
Whisper'd a seraph's voice, or lived the breath of God. 

VII. 

Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day. 
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's breast, 
A thousand clouds, all glowing in his ray. 
Catching brief splendour from the purple west? 
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth ! awhile 
With borrowed hues unnumber'd phantoms shone; 
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile. 
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own. 
Blending her rites with thine — while yet afar 
Thine eye's last radiance beam'd, a slow-receding star. 

VIII. 

Yet still one stream was pure — one sever'd shrine 
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands, 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 87 

And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine. 

Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. 

There still the father to his child bequeathed 

The sacred torch of never-dying flame ; 

There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed 

The One adored and everlasting Name, 

And angel guests would linger and repose 

Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose. 

IX. 

But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore 

Their alien rites: — for them, by fount or shade, 

Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, 

In thrilling whispers to the soul convey'd 

High inspiration : yet in every clime. 

Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought 

With beings, in their essence more sublime. 

To hold communion of mysterious thought ; 

On some dread power in trembling hope to lean. 

And hear in every wind the accents of th' Unseen. 

X. 

Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repovse 
On some protecting influence ; here confined, 
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, 
Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. 
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day. 
As exiles panting for their native coast. 
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way, 
And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross'd; 
Death hovers round us — in the zephyr's sigh. 
As in the storm, he comes — and lo ! Eternity! 



88 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

XL 

As one left lonely on the desert sands 

Of burning Afric, where, without a guide. 

He gazes as the pathless waste expands — 

Around, beyond, interminably wide ; 

While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, 

Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky. 

Or suns of blasting light perchance illume 

The glistening Serab' which iWudes his eye; 

Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, 

Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown 

XII. 

His thoughts explored the past — and where were they, 

The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by? 

He turn'd — a boundless void before him lay, 

Wrapp'd in the shadows of futurity. 

How knew the child of Nature that the flame 

He felt within him, struggling to ascend, 

Should perish not with that terrestrial frame 

Doom'd with the earth on which it moved, to blend ? 

How, when afiliction bade his spirit bleed, 

If 'twere a Father's love or Tyrant's wrath decreed? 

XIII. 

Oh ! marvel not, if then he sought to trace 

In all sublimities of sight and sound, 

In rushing winds that wander through all space 

Or 'midct deep woods, with holy gloom embrown'd, 

^ Serab, mirage. 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 89 

The oracles of Fate ! or if the train 

Of floating forms, that throng the world of sleep, 

And sounds that vibrate on the slumbcrer's brain 

When mortal voices rest in stillness deep. 

Were deem'd mysterious revelations, sent 

From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element. 

XIV. 

Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, 

Clothed with a deeper power ? — earth's wandering 

race. 
Exploring realms of solitude sublime, 
Not as tve see, beheld her awful face ! 
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met 
Their searching eyes ; unpeopled kingdoms lay 
In savage pomp before them — all was yet 
Silent and vast, but not as in decay. 
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, 
Look'd o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, 

lone. 

XV. 

The forests in their dark luxuriance waved. 
With all their swell of strange ^olian sound ; 
The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved. 
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round ; 
Then, brooding o'er the images, imprest 
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, 
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, 
'Midst dim remembrances of infancy, 
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams. 
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and 
streams. 
8* 



90 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

XVI. 

Then bled the victim — then in every shade 

Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine ; 

Fear bow'd before the phantoms she portray'd, 

And Nature teem'd with many a mystic sign. 

Meteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose course 

E'en yet is awful to th' enhghten'd eye, 

As, wildly rushing from your secret source, 

Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high, 

Then o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast. 

And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass'd. 

XVII. 

But you, ye stars ! in distant glory burning, 
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky ! 
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, 
Would pierce the secrets of infinity — 
To you the heart, bereft of other light. 
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains. 
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, 
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns. 
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race 
Of some unnumber'd orbs, that light the depths of 
space. 

XVIII. 

Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought, 
Whose vving, unaided in its course, explored 
The wide creation, and beholding nought 
Like your eternal beauty, then adored 
Its living splendours; deeming them inform'd 
By natures temper'd with a holier fire — 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 91 

Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm'd, 

Who to the source of spirit might aspire. 

And mortal prayers benignantly convey 

To some presiding Power, more awful far than they. 

XIX. 

Guides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you 

The seaman turn'd, rejoicing at the helm, 

When from the regions of empyreal blue 

Ye pour'd soft radiance o'er the ocean-realm; 

To you the dweller of the plains address'd 

Vain prayers, that called the clouds and dews your 

own; 
To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, 
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone. 
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie 
With your immortal host, and image back the sky. 

XX. 

Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crown 

Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain 

She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down. 

As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. 

Earth should be hush'd in slumber — but the night 

Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread, 

On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height 

The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed 

To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades 

Faintly as Nature's light the 'wilder'd soul pervades. 



92 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

XXL 

But when thine orb, all earth's rich hues restoring, 
Came forth, O sun ! in majesty supreme, 
Still from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring 
Beauty and life in each triumphant beam. 
Through thine own east what joyous rites prevaiPd! 
What choral songs re-echo'd ! while thy fire 
Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled 
The precious incense of each odorous pyre, 
Heap'd with the richest balms of spicy vales, 
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales. 

XXII. 

Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone. 
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew'd; 
For the dark children of the burning zone 
Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew'd 
With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild 

scene. 
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view'd. 
And, though with glory mantled, and serene 
In his own fulness of beatitude. 
Yet mourn'd for those whose spirits from thy ray 
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day. 

XXIII. 

But earth had deeper stains: ethereal powers! 

Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies, 

And hold high converse, 'midst his native bowers. 

With the once glorious son of Paradise, 

Look'd ye from heaven in sadness ? were your strains 

Of choral praise suspended in dismay, 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 93 

When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains. 
With clouds of incense dimm'd the blaze of day? 
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes. 
While demons hail'd the pomp of human sacrifice? 

XXIV. 

And well the powers of evil might rejoice. 
When rose from Tophet's vale the exulting cry, 
And, deaf to Nature's supplicating voice, 
The frantic mother bore her child to die ! 
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands 
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway, 
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands, 
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. 
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale ! 
Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an infant's 
wail ! 

XXV. 

A voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; 

'Twas not the childless mother — Svrian maids. 

Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows. 

Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. 

With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, 

Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns : 

Weep for the dead! — away! the lost is found. 

To life and love the buried god returns ! 

Then wakes the timbrel — then the forests ring. 

And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze's wing ! 

XXVI. 

But fill'd with holier joy the Persian stood. 
In silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, 



94 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 

At early dayspring, while the expanding flood 

Of radiance burst around, above, below — 

Bright, boundless as eternity ; he gazed 

Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflow'd 

In worship of th' Invisible, and praised 

In thee, O Sun ! the symbol and abode 

Of life, and power, and excellence, the throne 

Where dwelt the Unapproach'd, resplendently alone.* 

XXVII. 

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave 

Mysterious sanctity to things which wear 

Th' Eternal's impress? — if the living wave. 

The circling heavens, the free and boundless air — 

If the pure founts of everlasting flame. 

Deep in his country's hallow'd vales enshrined. 

And the bright stars, maintained a silent claim 

To love and homage from his awe-struck mind? 

Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream 

Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme. 



* At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the fol- 
lowing stanza was here inserted: — 

' Nor rose the Magian's hymn, subhmely swelling 

In full-toned homage to the source of flame. 

From fabric rear'd by man — the gorgeous dwelling 

Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame ; 

He rear'd no temple, bade no walls contain 

The breath of incense, or the voice of prayer; 

But made the boundless universe his fane, 

The rocks his altar-stone, adoring there 

The Being whose Omnipotence pervades 

All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.' 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 95 

XXVIII. 

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name 

To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung ; 

He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame 

The nnighty voice of Inspiration sung, 

He came, the victor Cyrus! — as he pass'd, 

Thrones to his footstep rock'd, and monarchs lay 

SuppHant and clothed with dust ; while nations cast 

Their ancient idols down before his way, 

Who, in majestic march, from shore to shore, 

The quenchless flame revered by Persia's children bore. 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS 



Call it not loneliness, to dwell 
In woodland shade or hermit dell. 
Or the deep forest to explore, 
Or wander alpine regions o'er ; 
For Nature there all joyous reigns. 
And fills with life her wild domains . 
A bird's light wing may break the air, 
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there: 
A bee the mountain flowers may seek, 
A chamois bound from peak to peak ; 
An eagle, rushing to the sky. 
Wake the deep echoes with his cry ; 
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, 
Some voice, though not of man, is near. 
But he, whose weary step hath traced 
Mysterious Afric's awful waste — 
Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd 
Can tell thee what is solitude ? 
It is, to traverse lifeless plains, 
Where everlasting stillness reigns. 
And billowy sands and dazzling sky, 
Seem boundless as infinity ! 
It is, to sink, with speechless dread, 
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, 
Sever'd from earthly being's trace. 
Alone, amidst eternal space ! 



(96} 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 97 

Tis noon — and fearfully profound, 
Silence is on the desert round ; 
Alone she reigns, above, beneath, 
With all the attributes of death ! 
No bird the blazing heaven may dare. 
No insect bide the scorching air ; 
The ostrich, though of sun-born race, 
Seeks a more shelter'd dwelling-place; 
The lion slumbers in his lair, 
The serpent shuns the noontide glare : 
But slowly wind the patient train 
Of camels o'er the blasted plain, 
Where they and man may brave alone 
The terrors of the burning zone. 

Faint not, O pilgrims ! though on high, 
As a volcano, flame the sky; 
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 
The dark-red seas of sand below ; 
Though not a shadow, save your own. 
Across the dread expanse is thrown ; 
Mark ! where, your feverish lips to lave. 
Wide spreads the fresh transparent wave \ 
Urge your tired camels on, and take 
Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring. 
And fan your brows with lighter wing. 
Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide 
Reflects the date-tree on its side — 
Speed on ! pure draughts and genial air. 
And verdant shade, await you there. 

Vol. III. 9 



98 THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 

Oh glimpse of Heaven ! to him unknown. 

That hath not trod the burning zone ! 

Forward they press — they gaze dismay 'd — 

The waters of the desert fade ! 

Melting to vapours that elude 

The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd.* 

What meteor comes? — a purple haze 

Hath half obscured the noontide rays:^ 

Onward it moves in swift career, 

A blush upon the atmosphere ; 

Haste, haste ! avert th' impending doom. 

Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom ! 

Bow down your faces — till the blast 

On its red wing of flame hath pass'd, 

Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 

The viewless Angel of the Grave. 

It came — 'tis vanish'd — but hath left 
The wanderers e'en of hope bereft; 
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, 
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame ; 
Faint with despondence, worn with toil. 
They sink upon the burning soil, 
Resign'd, amidst those realms of gloom, 
To find their death-bed and their tomb.^ 

But onward still! — yon distant spot 
Of verdure can deceive you not; 

^ The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water. 

^ See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's Travels. 

' The extreme languor and despondence produced by the 
Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal have been desQiibe^i 
by many travellers. 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 9^ 

Yon palms, which tremulously seem'd 

Reflected as the waters gleam'd; 

Along th' horizon's verge display'd, 

Still rear their slender colonnade — 

A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 

The Caravan's exhausted train. 

Fair is that little Isle of Bliss 

The desert's emerald oasis ! 

A rainbow on the torrent's wave, 

A gem embosom'd in the grave, 

A sunbeam on a stormy day 

Its beauty's image might convey! 

* Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps,' 

While silence round her vigil keeps. 

— Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid 

To slumber in th' acacia shade: 

Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise. 

Their aromatic breath diffuse; 

Where softer light the sunbeams pour 

Through the tall palm and sycamore ; 

And the rich date luxuriant spreads 

Its pendent clusters o'er your heads. 

Nature once more, to seal your eyes. 

Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; 

Again each heart the music hails 

Of rustling leaves and sighing gales. 

And oh ! to Afric's child how dear 

The voice of fountains gushing near ! 

Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams 

Of waving groves and rippling streams! 

Far be the serpent's venom'd coil 

From the brief respite won by toil ; 



100 THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 

Far be the awful shades of those 
Who deep beneath the sands repose — 
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath 
Bore swift and stern the call of death. 
Sleep ! nor may scorching blast invade 
The freshness of the acacia shade, 
But gales of heaven your spirits bless. 
With life's best balm — Forgetfulness ! 
Till night from many an urn diffuse 
The treasures of her world of dews. 



The day hath closed — the moon on high 
W^alks in her cloudless majesty. 
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 
Serene magnificence have given ; 
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 
Shines forth eternally the same. 
Blest be their beams, whose holy light 
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right. 
And lead, as with a track divine. 
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine ! 

— Rise' bid your Isle of Palms adieu! 
Again your lonely march pursue. 
While airs of night are freshly blowing. 
And heavens with softer beauty glowing. 

— 'Tis silence all; the solemn scene 
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien ; 
For giant-rocks, at distance piled. 
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 
Darkly they rise — what eye hath view'd 
The caverns of their solitude? 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 101 

Away ! within those awful cells 

The savage lord of Afric dwells ! 

Heard ye his voice? — the lion's roar 

Swells as when billows break on shore. 

Well may the camel shake with fear, 

And the steed pant — his foe is near; 

Haste ! light the torch, bid watch-fires throw 

Far o'er the v^^aste, a ruddy glow ; 

Keep vigil — guard the bright array 

Of flames that scare him from his prey ; 

Within their magic circle press, 

O wanderers of the wilderness ! 

Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, 

Tell the wild tales of elder days. 

Arabia's wond'rous lore — that dwells 

On warrior deeds, and wizard spells; 

Enchanted domes, 'mid scenes like these. 

Rising to vanish with the breeze ; 

Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed 

Their light where mortal may not tread. 

And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 

Th' eternal billow heaves and falls. 

— With charms like these, of mystic power, 
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour. 

— Slowly that hour hath roU'd away. 
And star by star withdraws its ray. 
Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich orient hails his reign. 

He comes, but veil'd — with sanguine glare 
Tinging the mists that load the air; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim* 
0* 



102 THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 

'Tis death's red banner streams on high — 
Fly to the rocks for shelter! — fly I 
Lo ! dark'ning o'er the fiery skies, 
The pillars of the desert rise ! 
On, in terrific grandeur wheehng, 
A giant-host, the heavens concealing. 
They move, like mighty genii forms, 
Towering immense 'midst clouds and storms. 
Who shall escape? — with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on their course, 
They join, they rush resistless on. 
The landmarks of the plain are gone; 
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, 
Of those who trod the burning waste ! 
All whelm'd, all hush'd ! — none left to bear 
Sad record how they perish'd there ! 
No stone their tale of death shall tell — 
The desert guards its mysteries well ; 
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep, 
Where low their nameless relics sleep. 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF 
CARTHAGE. 



["Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in 
Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the 
Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him : — 
" Marius, I come from the Prsetor Sextilius, to tell you that he 
forbids yon to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support 
the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." Marius, 
upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. 
He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer 
with a menacing aspect. At length the officer enquired what 
answer ne should carry to the governor. " Go and tell him," 
said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, "that thou liast seen the 
exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage." See Plu- 
tarch.] 



'TwAS noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high. 
With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky; 
No zephyr waved the palm's niajestic head. 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light. 
Silent and lonely as at dead of night, 
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes 
Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains; 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown, 
The lizard bask'd upon the altar-stone ; 
Whelm'd by the ruins of their own abodes. 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; 



104 MARIUS AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 

While near, dread oflfepring of the burning day ! 
Coil'd 'midst forsaken halls, the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued. 
To shelter in that awful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien. 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert-scene ; 
Shadow'd, not veil'd, by locks of wintry snow. 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow ; 
Time had not quench'd the terrors of his eye. 
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency; 
While the deep meaning of his features told. 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit roll'd. 
Nor dimm'd the fire that might not be controll'd; 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Shatter'd, but yet unconquer'd, by the storm. 

But slow his step — and where, not yet o'erthrown. 
Still tower'd a pillar 'midst the waste alone. 
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid. 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept — and darkly, on his brief repose, 
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain. 
The kingly shadow seem'd to lift his chain. 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn. 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

"And sleep'st thou, Roman?" cried bis voice 
austere ; 
♦* Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ? 



MARIUS AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 105 

Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 

When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate ! 

Go ! with her children's flower, the free, the brave, 

People the silent chambers of the grave ; 

So shall the course of ages yet to be, 

More swiftly waft the day, avenging me! 

" Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, 
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom ; 
I see the trophies of her pride decay, 
And her long line of triumphs pass away. 
Lost in the depths of time — while sinks the star 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 
Lo ! from the frozen forests of the north. 
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! 
Who shall awake the mighty? — will thy woe. 
City of thrones ! disturb the realms below ? 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadowy legions to arise. 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! 
— Barbarians revel in their ancient halls. 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
'Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free* 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! born on high, 
A creature of the empyreal — Thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth — whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved; 
Sink from thy Heavens I for glory's noon is o'er, 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! 
Closed is thy regal course — thy crest is torn, 
And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn. 



106 MARIUS AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 

The shaft hath reach'd thee ! — rest with chiefs and 

kings, 
Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey. 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 
" But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread. 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head ! 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine: 
' Midst fallen palaces she sits alone. 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone, 
Or bids the nations 'midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleep'st thou, Roman ? Son of Victory, 
rise ! 
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood ! 
My children's manes call — awake ! prepare 
The feast they claim! — exult in Rome's despair' 
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries. 
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; 
Let carnage revel, e'en her shrines among. 
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young ! 

Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed. 
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head ! '* 

The vision flies — a mortal step is near. 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear ; 



MARIUS AMONG THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. 107 

He starts, he wakes to woe — before him stands 
Th' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands. 
Whose falt'ring accents tell the exiled chief. 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
— Silent the wanderer sat — but on his cheek 
The burning glow far more than words might speak • 
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke 
Language, where all th' indignant soul awoke. 
Till his deep thought found voice — then, calmly 

stern, 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, " Return ! 
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath 

been ! '' 



108 SONG. 

SONG. 

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE. 

Away ! though still thy sword is red 

With life-blood from my sire. 
No drop of thine may now be shed 

To quench my bosom's fire ; 
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest. 
Than dews upon the desert's breast. 

Pve sought thee 'midst the sons of men, 

Through the wide city's fanes; 
I've sought thee by the lion's den, 

O'er pathless, boundless plains; 
No step that mark'd the burning waste. 
But mine its lonely course hath traced. 

Thy name hath been a baleful spell. 

O'er my dark spirit cast ; 
No thought may dream, no words may tell. 

What there unseen hath pass'd: 
This wither'd cheek, this faded eye. 
Are seals of thee — behold! and fly! 

Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd. 

Beneath the palm-tree's shade ? 
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored. 

Within my dwelling laid ? 
What though unknown — yet who shall rest 
Secure — if not the Arab's guest? 



SONG. 109 

Haste thee ! and leave mj threshold-floor. 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let not thy presence tempt me more, 

— Man may not thus endure ! 
Away ! I bear a fetter'd arm, 
A heart that burns — but must not harm! 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle ! 

The wind in speed subdue! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well. 

As vengeance shall pursue ; 
And hate, like love, in parting pain, 
Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again! 

To-morrow — and th' avenger's hand, 

The warrior's dart is free I 
E'en now, no spot in all thy land. 

Save thisy had shelter'd thee. 
Let blood the monarch's hall profane, — 
The Arab's tent must bear no stain ! 

Fly 1 may the desert's fiery blast 

Avoid thy secret way ! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past. 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day ! 
I would not that thy doom should be 
Assign'd by Heaven to aught but me. 

Vol. IIL 10 



110 ALP-HORN SONG. 

ALP-HORN SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK. 



What dost thou here, brave Swiss? 
Forgett'st thou thus thy native chme — 
The lovely land of thy bright spring-time ? 
The land of thy home, with its free delights. 
And fresh green valle3^s and mountain-heights? 

Can the stranger's yield thee bliss? 

What welcome cheers thee now 1 
Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around? 
Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown'd? 
Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, 
Or the ringing peal of the j03'^ous horn, 

Or the peasant's fearless brow ? 

But thy spirit is far away ! 
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes. 
Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies,' 
With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free. 
And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea, 

And the summits, clothed with day ! 

Back, noble child of Tell ! 
Back to the wild and the silent glen, 
And the frugal board of peasant-men ! 
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here? — 
Away ! not a true Swiss heart is near. 

Against thine own tp swell I 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 



TO VENUS. 

BOOK 1st, ode 30th. 

"O Venus, Regina Cnidi Paphique," &c 

Oh ! leave thine own loved isle, 
Bright queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores! 

And here in Glycera's fair temple smile. 
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. 

Waft here thy glowing son; 
Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround. 

And youth unlovely till thy gifts be won. 
And the light Graces with the zone unbound. 



TO HIS ATTENDANT. 

BOOK 1st, ode 38th. 

" Persicos odi, puer, apparatus," &c. 

I HATE the Persian's costly pride — 

The wreaths with bands of linden tied — 

These, boy, delight me not ; 
Nor where the lingering roses bide. 

Seek thou for me the spot. 

For me be nought but myrtle twined — 

The modest myrtle, sweet to bind 

Alike thy brows and mine ; 

While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined 

Beneath th' o'erarching vine. 

(Ill) 



112 TRANSLATIONS PROM HORACE. 

TO DELIUS. 

BOOK 2d, ODE 3d. 

"-^quam memento rebus in arduis," &c. 

Firm be thy soul!— serene in power. 
When adverse fortune clouds the sky; 

Undazzled by the triumph's hour. 
Since, Delius, thou must die ! 

Alike, if still to grief resign 'd, 

Or if, through festal days, 'tis thine 

To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined, 
The old Falernian wine : 

Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs 
Love with the pine's to blend on high. 

And some clear fountain brightly flows 
In graceful windings by. 

There be the rose with beauty fraught. 
So soon to fade, so brilliant now. 

There be the wine, the odours brought. 
While time and fate allow I 

. For thou, resigning to thine heir 

Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store. 
Must leave that home, those woodlands fair. 
On yellow Tiber's shore. 

What then avails it if thou trace 
From Inachus thy glorious line? 

Or, sprung from some ignoble race^ 
If not a roof be thine? 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 113 

Since the dread lot for all must leap 
Forth from the dark revolving urn 

And we must tempt the gloomy deep, 
Whence exiles ne'er return. 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 

BOOK 3d, ode 13th. 
"Oh! Fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro," &c. 

Oh ! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 
Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! 

To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, 

Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might: 

Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, 

Doom'd with his blood thy gelid wave to stain. 

Let the red dog-star burn! — his scorching beam. 
Fierce in resplendence, shall molest not thee ! 

Still shelter'd from his rays, thy banks, fair stream. 
To the wild flock around thee wandering free. 

And the tired oxen from the furrow 'd field 

The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 

And thou, bright fount ! ennobled and renown'd 
Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made; 

Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown'd. 
Whose boughs, a pendent canopy, o'ershade 

Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale, 

Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. 
10* 



114 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

TO FAUNUS. 

BOOK 3d, ode 18th. 
**Faune, Nympharum fugentium amator," &c. 

Faunus, who lov'st the flying nymphs to chase, 
O let thy steps with genial influence tread 

My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace. 
Soft on my nursling groves and borders, shed. 

If, at the mellow closing of the year, 

A tender kid in sacrifice be thine; 
Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear; 

Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine. 

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays. 
When the December feast returns to thee ; 

Calmly the ox along the pasture strays. 
With festal villagers from toil set free. 

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat. 
Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round ; 

And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet 
In triple dance have struck the hated ground. 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 115 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 



[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the 
southern hemisphere. The following^ lines are supposed to be 
addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.] 



In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread. 
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light 
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth. 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn. 
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine. 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee. 



116 THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,* 
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurPd; 
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow 
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou 

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west. 
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride, 
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 

Shine on — my own land is a far-distant spot. 
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not; 
And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be 
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee ! 

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, 
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine; 
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free. 
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee. 

^ Constantine. 



THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 117 



THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 

I LAY upon the solemn plain, 

And by the funeral mound, 
Where those who died not there in vain 

Their place of sleep had found. 

'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd 
When Persia came array 'd — 

So many a voice had there been hush'd, 
So many a footstep stay'd. i 

I slumber'd on the lonely spot 

So sanctified by death : 
I slumber'd — but my rest was not 

As theirs who lay beneath. 

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour. 
They rose — the chainless dead — 

All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power 
Up from their grassy bed. 

1 saw their spears, on that red field. 

Flash as in time gone by — 
Chased to the seas wdthout his shield, 

I saw the Persian fly. 

I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 

Call'd to another fight — 
From visions of our glorious past. 

Who doth not wake in might? 



118 TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



What wish can Friendship form for thee, 
What brighter star invoke to shine? — 

Thy path from every thorn is free. 
And every rose is thine ! 

Life hath no purer joy in store, 
Time hath no sorrow to efface; 

Hope cannot paint one blessing more 
Than memory can retrace ! 

Some hearts a boding fear might own, 
Had Fate to them thy portion given. 

Since many an eye by tears alone. 
Is taught to gaze on Heaven ! 

And there are virtues oft conceal'd, 
Till roused by anguish from repose. 

As odorous trees no balm will yield. 
Till from their wounds it flows. 

But fear not thou the lesson fraught 

With Sorrow's chast'ning power to know; 

Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught, 
" To melt at others' woe." 

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm. 
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth : 

Ah ! why should Virtue dread the storm, 
If sunbeams prove her worth ? 



TO THE SAME. 119 

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE 
ALBUM OF THE SAME. 

What first should consecrate as thine, 
The volume, destined to be fraught 

With many a sweet and playful line, 
With many a pure and pious thought? 

It should be, what a loftier strain 
Perchance less meetly would impart; 

What never yet was pour'd in vain, — 
The blessing of a grateful heart — 

For kindness, which hath soothed the hour 

Of anxious grief, of weary pain. 
And oft, with its beguiling power, 

Taught languid Hope to smile again; 

Long shall that fervent blessing rest 

On thee and thine, and, heavenwards borne. 

Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, 
As thou would'st bear to all that mourn. 



TO THE SAME— ON THE DEATH OF 
HER MOTHER. 



Say not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear. 

Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 

More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls 

Each drop to life some latent virtue calls; 



120 TO THE SAME. 

Awakes some purer hope, ordain'd to rise, 
By earthly sorrow strengthen'd for the skies, 
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love. 
With its lost treasure, seeks a home — above. 

But grief will claim her hour, — and He, whose eye 
Looks pitying down on nature's agony. 
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep. 
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep ! 
He, too, hath wept — and sacred be the woes 
Once borne by him, their inmost source who knows, 
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And w^ho but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke. 
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke? 
Oh ! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore 
The vanish'd light, that cheers their path no more ! 
Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt. 
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt ! 
By fire and storm. Heaven tries the Christian's worth. 
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth. 
Where still too long, with beings born to die, 
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost. 
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most ; 
Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy gloom. 
Her star in glory rises from the tomb. 
Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below, 
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 



TO THE SAME. 121 

Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubt, suspense are fled, 
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead ! 
The final ordeal of the soul is past. 
And the pale brow is seal'd to Heaven at last ! ^ 

And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature, 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure ; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence blest 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast. 
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found, 
Whence beam'd her smile benignantly around; 
Thou, that to bosoms widow'd and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left. 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be. 
Till Heaven recall surviving love to thee! — 

O cherish'd and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell ! 
So pure, so blest thy life, that death alone 
G^uld make more perfect happiness thine own ; 
He came — thy cup of joy, serenely bright, 
Full to the last, still flow'd in cloudless light; 
He came — an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted — Immortality! 

^ " Till we have sealed the servants of God in their fore- 
lieads." — Revelations. 

Vol. III. 11 



122 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GARCILASSO 
DE LA VEGA. 



Divine Eliza! — since the sapphire sky 
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet 
Sandall'd with immortality — oh why 
Of me forgretful ! — Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on the time when I shall see 
The veil of mortal being rent in twain. 
And smile that I am free 1 

In the third circle of that happy land 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue. 
And other vales, and a new shady shore. 
When I may rest, and ever in my view 
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sunder'd more ! 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO. 

Oh ! pure and blessed soul 

That, from thy clay's control 
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere, 

And from thy crystal throne 

Look'st down, with smiles alone. 
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear; 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT, ETC. 123 

Thy happy feet have trod 

The starry spangled road, 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding, 

And from their erring track 

Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 

O! who shall Death withstand — 

Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine! 

When shall our ears again 

Drink in so sweet a strain, 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine ! 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE 
CAPE TO VASCA DE GAMA. 

(TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE LUSIAD 
OF CAMOENS.) 



Propitious winds our daring bark impell'd, 
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld. 
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood 
Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood, 
High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast, 
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast: 
Awful, immense, it came ! so thick, so drear. 
Its gloomy grandeur chiil'd our hearts with fear. 
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, 
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore. 



124 APPEARANCE OF THE 

Thrill'd with amaze, I cried, " Supernal Power ! 
What mean the omens of this threatening hour? 
What the dread mystery of this ocean-cHme, 
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when, lo ! a mighty form 
Tower'd through the gathering shadows of the storm ; 
Of rude proportions and gigantic size. 
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes; 
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew. 
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue. 
Well may I tell thee, that his limbs and height, 
In vast dimensions and stupendous might, 
Surpass'd that wonder, once the sculptor's boast. 
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. 
Deep was his voice, in hollow tones he spoke. 
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke ; 
And but that form to view, that voice to hear. 
Spread o'er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills of fear. 

" Oh ! daring band," he cried, " far, far more bold 
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told; 
Adventurous spirits ! whom no bounds of fear 
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce career; 
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main. 
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign, 
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time. 
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime: 
Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown 
O'er the dark secrets of the deep Unknown, 
Ne'er yet reveal'd to aught of mortal birth, 
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatch'd in worth ; 
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate. 
Rash, bold intruders ! on your course await ! 



SPIRIT OF THE CAPE. 125 

What countless perils, woes of darkest hue, 
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must yet 

subdue ! 

Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless helm 
Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, 
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, 
And guard with storms my own terrific shore ! 
And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave 
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, 
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear 
Have time to prophesy destruction near ! 

" Yes, desperate band ! if right my hopes divine 
Revenge, fierce, full, unequall'd, shall be mine ! 
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way, 
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey ! 
And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find, 
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind), 
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm, 
Death shall be deem'd misfortune's mildest form. 

* * * * * # # 

" Lo ! where my victim comes! — of noble birth. 
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth. 
With her,' his best beloved, in all her charms, 
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms ! 
From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly. 
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! 
Oh ! dark the fate that calls them from their home, 
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 

^ Don Emmanuel de Sonza and his wife, Leonora de S^ 
11* 



126 APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT, ETC. 

And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, 
For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom ! 

— Yes! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain, 
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain; 
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear 
From her, the soft, the idolized, the fair; 

Shall see those limbs, of Nature's finest mould, 
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight-cold. 
And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land 
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand. 

" Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold. 
Who lived through toils unequall'd and untold ! 
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky. 
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die ! 
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense. 
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense. 
Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes, 
Their struggling spirits mount from anguish to re- 
pose ! " 

As the dark phantom sternly thus portray'd 
Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, — 
" Who then art thou ?" I cried, " dread being, tell 
Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell ? " 

— With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, 
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied — 

" Behold the genius of that secret shore, 
Where the wind rages, and the billows roar; 
That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone. 
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknovv^n ! 
Far to the southern pole my throne extends. 
That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. 



A DIRGE. 127 

Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, 
Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite.'* 



Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, 
The giant-spectre vanish'd from our eyes; 
In sable clouds dissolved — while far around. 
Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells re- 
sound ! 



A DIRGE. 



Weep for the early lost! — 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, 

E'en when life promised most. 
How many hopes have wither'd — they that bow 
To Heaven's dread will, feel all its mvsteries now. 



Did the young mother's eye 
Behold her child, and close upon the day. 
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply ? 
— Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn! 
Oh ! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 



128 A DIRGE. 

For there is hush'd on earth 
A voice of gladness — there is veii'd a face, 
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place, 

By the once-joyous hearth. 
A smile hath pass'd, which fiU'd its home with light ; 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though nature, o'er the untimely grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave ; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on. 
When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are 
gone ! 

But glory from the dust. 
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those 
On whose bright memory love may still repose. 

With an immortal trust ! 
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part 
Such hope as she hath left — "the puie in heart.' 

1823. 



THE MAREMMA. 



['• Nello BELLA PiETRA had Gspoused a lady of noble family 
at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration 
of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, 
which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at 
length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello, It is 
difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so 
Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Marem- 
ma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He 
never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to 
so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or 
accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without 
answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He 
patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health 
of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, 
indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. 
It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and per- 
petual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of 
an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only 
four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a 
captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle 
of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the 
treachery of the House of Este ; the third, was a woman unknown 
to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards 
him with these words : — 

Recorditi di me ; che son la Pia, 
Sienna mi fe, disfecemi Maremma, 
Saisi colui che inanellata pria 
Disposando ra' avea con la sua gemma.'" 

Purgatorio, cant. 5. 
' — Edinburgh Review, No. Iviii.] 

(129) 



130 THE MAREMMA. 

"Mais elle etait du monde, ou les plus belles choses, 
Ont le pire destin ; 
Et Rose eile a vecu ce que vivent les roses, 
L'espace d'un Matin." 

Malherbk. 



There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 
Where glowing suns their purest Hght diffuse. 
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, 
And nature lavishes her warmest hues; 
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath, 
Away ! her charms are but the pomp of Death ! 

He, in the vine-clad bowers, unseen is dwelling, 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws. 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling. 
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose ; 
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh. 
But woo thee still to slumber and to die. 

Mysterious danger lurks, a syren, there. 

Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom. 

But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 

And veil'd in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; 

How may we deem, amidst their deep array. 

That heaven and earth but flatter to betray ? 

Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure ! Can it be, 
That these but charm us with destructive wiles? 
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee 
Danger is mask'd in beauty — death in smiles? 
Oh ! still the Circe of that fatal shore, 
Where she, the sun's bright daughter, dwelt of yore ! 



THE MAREMMA. 131 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads. 

Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign. 

And viewless blights o'er many a landscape sheds, 

Gay with the riches of the south, in vain, 

O'er fairy bowers and palaces of state, 

Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 

And pillared halls, whose airy colonnades 
Were formed to echo music's choral tone. 
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades,^ 
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone ; 
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves. 
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. 

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, 
'Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. 
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities, — 
Wild visions! — there no sylvan powers convene, — 
Death reigns the genius of the Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome ! that bear 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow. 
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air 
Extends the desert of his empire now; 
Broods o'er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome. 
And makes the Caesars' ruin'd halls his home. 

Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. 
His crown'd and chosen victims: o'er their lot 



' See Madame de Stael's fine description, in her CorinnCf of 
tte Villa Borghese, deserted on account of malaria. 



132 THE MAREMMA. 

Hath fond affection wept; each blighted flower 
In turn was loved and mourn'd, and is forgot. 
But one who perish'd, ]e(t a tale of woe, 
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls, 

Is floating joyous on the summer air, 

And there are banquets in her stately halls. 

And graceful revels of the gay and fair. 

And brilliant wreaths the altar have array'd, 

Where meet her noblest youth, and loveliest maid. 

To that young bride each grace hath Nature given, 
Which glows on Art's divinest dream, — her eye 
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven — 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of. the south, whose form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colours warm.* 

But is she blest? — for sometimes o'er her smile 
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast ; 
And in her liquid glance there seems awhile 
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past ; 
Yet soon it flies — a cloud that leaves no trace, 
On the sky's azure, of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 
Remembrance of some early love or woe. 
Faded, yet scarce forgotten — in her eyes 
Wakening the half-form'd tear that may not flow ; 

^ An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his v/ife Mona 
Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitation of Nature ever 
exhibited in painting. — See Vasari in his Lives of the Painters, 



THE MAREMMA. 133 

Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 
Where still some pining thought comes darkly o'ei 
our mirth. 

The world before her smiles — its changeful gaze 
She hath not proved as yet ; her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise 
Is still the joyous herald of her way ; 
And beauty's light around her dwells, to throw 
O'er every scene its own resplendent glow. 

Such is the young Bianca — graced with all 
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give; 
Pure in their loveliness — her looks recall 
Such dreams, as ne'er life's early bloom survive ; 
And, when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught 
With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought. 

And he, to whom are breathed her vows of faith. 
Is brave and noble — child of high descent. 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
'Mid slaughter'd heaps, the v^^arrior's monument : 
And proudly marshali'd his Carroccio's" way. 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous, commanding mien, 

Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace ; 

Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, 

Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face. 

And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye — 

And e'en while yet we gaze, its quick, wild flashes die. 

^ See the description of this sort of consecrated war-chariot in 
^ismondi's Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, ^'C, vol. i. p. 394. 
Vol. hi. —^12 



134 THE MAREMMA. 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, 

As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 

And veil the workings of each darker feeling, 

Deep in his soul concentrating its force : 

But yet, he loves — O! who hath loved, nor know^n 

Affection's power exalt the bosom all its own ? 

The days roll on — and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden — thou might'st deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To w^ake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear, 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed — her fate 
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud oercast. 
Have jealous doubts transform'd to wrath and hate. 
The love whose glow expression's power surpass'd? 
Lo ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
Is gathering day by da}^, prophetic of her doom. 

O ! can he meet that eye, of light serene, 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth. 
And view that bright intelligence of mien 
Form'd to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, 
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign? 
— How shall he e'er confide in aught on earth again ? 

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze. 
Transient, yet fill'd with meaning stern and wild. 
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys. 
Then turns away, and fixes on her child 
So dark a glance, as thrills a mother's mind 
With some vague fear, scarce own'd, and undefined 



THE MAR EMMA. 135 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore, 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 
Grey rocks with foliage richly shadow'd o'er, 
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood, 
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. 

Fair is that house of solitude — and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread, 
A sun-bright waste of beauty — yet an air 
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed. 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain, 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 

'Mid founts, and cypress walks, and olive groves: 

All sleeps in sunshine, 'neath cerulean skies. 

And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; 

Yet every trace of man reveals alone. 

That there life once hath flourished — and is gone 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing. 

The summer air, deceit in every sigh. 

Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing. 

Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt, in days gone by ; 

And strains of mirth and melody have flow'd 

Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her Lord, remorseless, bear 
Bianca with her child — his alter'd eye 
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, 
While his dark spirit seals their doom — to die; 
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart. 
Tell her, from fruitless hope at once to part. 



136 THE MAREMMA. 

It is the summer's glorious prime — and blending 
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of Heaven upon its breast descending, 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves, in glassy sleep. 
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of solitude and light. 

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, 
Deck'd with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, 
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing. 
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, 
And far around, a deep and sunny bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, 
Which o'er thee breathing with insidious power. 
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale. 
And fatal in its softness, day by day. 
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. 

But sink not yet ; for there are darker woes. 
Daughter of Beauty ! in thy spring-morn fading. 
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those 
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading ! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot: 
'Tis agony — but soon to be forgot' 

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring. 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring. 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death ? 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last ! 



THE MAREMMA. 137 

Such pangs were thine, young mother ! — Thou didst 

bend 
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head ; 
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, 
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed. 
And watch his patient, supplicating eye, 
Fix'd upon thee — on thee ! — who could'st no aid supply ! 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 
Through those dark hours — to thee the wind's low sigh, 
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow, 
Came like some spirit whispering — "He must die!" 
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast 
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest. 

'Tis past — that fearful trial — he is gone; 
But thou, sad mourner ! hast not long to weep ; 
The hour of nature's charter'd peace comes on. 
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet — and death shall be 
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. 

But ask not — hope not — one relenting thought 
From him who doom'd thee thus to waste away, 
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance 

fraught, 
Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay ; 
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace 
The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come. 
When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shalt rise 
As an accusing angel — and thy tomb, 
A martyr's shrine, be hallow'd in his eyes! 
12* 



138 THE MAREMMA. 

Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring. 
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could 
sting. 

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven — for all on earth, 
Young sufferer! fades before thee — Thou art lone — - 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, 
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own ! 
It is our task to suffer — and our fate 
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

The season's glory fades — the vintage-lay 
Through joyous Italy resounds no more; 
But mortal loveliness hath pass'd away, 
Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store. 
Beauty and youth are gone — behold them such 
As Death hath made them with his blighting touch 1 

The summer's breath came o'er them — and they died ! 
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, 
Call'd forth young nature in her festal pride, 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and light all flowers — but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 
O lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave ; 
But o'er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling 
The dew-drops glisten, and the wild-flowers wave — 
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, 
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb ! 



STANZAS 

TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 



" Among many nations were there no King like him." 

Nehemiah. 

" Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen 
this day in Israel !" Samuel. 



Another warning sound ! the funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strikes on th' awaken'd heart from shore to shore. 
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, 

The chambers of our palaces hath trod. 
And the long- suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God ! 
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep ; 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep. 

Vain voice of Reason, hush! — they yet must flow, 

The unrestrain'd, involuntary tears; 
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe. 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years. 
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief, 

Now that the exile of the soul is past. 
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief. 

Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last ; 
For him, eternity hath tenfold day, 
We feel, we know, 'tis thus — yet nature will have \^ay. 

(139) 



140 STAJMZAS TO THE MEMORY 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, 

Sadd'ning the scene where once it nobly reign'd, 
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, 

Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd; 
Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung 

Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 
Fresh nature from its deep decay, and sprung 

Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true ; 
While England hung her trophies on the stem. 
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! Oh mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies? 
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb. 

The realm's high soul to loftiest energies! 
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying spark of pure and generous thought; 
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast,^ 
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deep^in- 
ing fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his worth. 
Strength, as of inspiration, fili'd the land; 

A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth. 
Kindled by him — who saw it not expand! 

^ The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears ahout 
a ship during- tempests ; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered 

by the sailors as an omen of good weather. See Dampier's 

Voyages. 



OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 141 

Such was the will of heaven — the gifted seer, 
Who with his God had communed, face to face 

And from the house of bondage, and of fear. 
In faith victorious, led the chosen riice ; 

He through the desert and the waste their guide, 

Saw dimly from afar, the promised land — and died. 

O full of days and virtues ! on thy head 

Centred the woes of many a bitter lot; 
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead, 

Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have forgot ; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years. 

And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length; 
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears. 

Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand. 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eternal's hand. 

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams 

Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied; 
But what to thee the splendour of its beams? 

The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's pride I 
Nations leap'd up to joy — as streams that burst. 

At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain. 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed, 

Roll in exulting melody again ; 
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts — 
but thine. 

Oh ! what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee. 

When sceptred chieftains throng'd w ith palms to hail 
The crowning isle, th' anointed of the sea ! 



142 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY 

Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice — rich pageants glitter'd by, 

And stately revels imaged, in their mirth. 
The old magnificence of chivalry. 

They reach'd not thee — amidst them, yet alone. 

Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne. 

Yet there was mercy still — if joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude. 
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high; 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain, with dread solemnity! 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom. 
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb! 

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past. 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour. 
Watch 'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last, 

Sustain'd inspired, by strong affection's power; 
If to thy soul her voice no music bore — 

If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks, that fondly would explore 

Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
Oh 1 thou wert spared the pang that would have 

thrill'd 
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom 
still'd. 

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime. 
Youth, with its glory, in its fulness, age, 



OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 143 

All, at the gates of their eternal clime 

Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage ; 

The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers, 

The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile, 

Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers, 
The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 

As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain. 

Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and 
the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine? 

The stream of thought, though broken, still was 
pure ! 
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine. 

Where earthly image would no more endure ! 
Though many a step, of once-familiar sound, 

Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear. 
And voices breathed forgotten tones around. 

Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear; 
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering 
hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse ; 
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course : 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss, 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye; 
And, closing up each avenue of bliss. 

Murmur their summons, to *' despair and die!" 
No ! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease. 
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace. 



144 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY 

They might be with thee still — the loved, the tried, 

The fair, the lost — they might be with thee still ! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill ; 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd. 
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 

Those forms, from us withdrawn — to thee restored ! 
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd. 
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was 
seal'd. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above. 

Those viewless regions where the weary rest? 
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love. 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest? 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty? — did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight, 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew ? 
Oh! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes. 
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er forsakes. 

These may be fantasies — and this alone, 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own. 

Rest, in thy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all 

The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow, 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral. 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now; 



OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 145 

Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, 
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute t. 
the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies, 
May cast one glance of tenderness behind 

On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties. 
How much hast thou to gaze on ! all that lay 

By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd. 
The might, the majesty, the proud array 

Of England's march o'er many a noble field, 
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light. 
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine 
height. 

Away, presumptuous thought! — departed saint! 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint. 

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day ? 
Oh ! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervour of meridian heat, 
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat ! 
And thou may'st view, from thy divine abode. 
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! Yes ! thy place is void 
Within our hearts — there veil'd thine image dwelt, 

But cherish'd still ; and o'er that tie destroy'd. 
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt. 
Vol. III. 13 



116 STANZAS TO THE MEMORY 

Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, 
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose, 

And many a head, with years and sorrows grey, 
Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose ; 

And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, 

Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations: — things revered, 

Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd 

His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 
But when the fires that long had slumher'd, pent 

Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force. 
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, 

And swept each holy barrier from their course, 
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood. 
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks 
stood. 

Be they eternal! — Be thy children found 

Still to their country's altars true like thee I 
And, while " the name of Briton" is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and (reef 
With the high feelings, at the word which swell, 

To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame, 
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well, 

Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Lei earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust. 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 



OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 147 

All else shall pass away — the thrones of kings, 

The very traces of their tombs depart ; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart. 
Heir-looms from race to race! — and oh! in days, 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest. 
When our sons learn, " as household words," thy 
praise. 

Still on thine oflspring, may thy spirit rest! 
And many a name of that imperial line, 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's songs, with 
thine ! 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

A FRAGMENT. 



The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave. 

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill. 
The wild wind slumbers in its cave. 

And heaven is cloudless — earth is still! 
The pile, that crowns jon savage height 
With battlements of Gothic might, 
Rises in softer pomp array'd, 
Its massy towers half lost in shade. 
Half touch'd with mellowing light! 
The rays of night, the tints of time, 

Soft mingling on its dark-grey stone 
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime, 

A placid smile have thrown ; 
And far beyond, where wild and high. 
Bounding the pale blue summer sky, 
A mountain-vista meets the eye, 
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume 
A pencil 'd shade, a softer gloom ; 
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light. 
Its torrents glitter through the night. 
While every cave and deep recess 
Frowns in more shadowy awfiilness* 
Scarce moving on the glassy deep 
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep. 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 149 

But darting from its side, 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide! 
No sound is on the summer seas. 

But the low dashing of the oar, 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. 
— The boat has reach'd the silent bay, 
The dashing oar has ceased to plaj'^. 
The breeze has murmur'd and has died 
In forest -shades, on ocean's tide. 
No step, no tone, no breath of sound 
Disturbs the loneliness profound ; 
And midnight spreads o'er earth and main 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane, 

To break on nature's sleep ! 
It is the hour for thought to soar. 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes; 
For rapt devotion to adore. 

For passion to repose; 
And virtue to forget her tears. 
In visions of sublimer spheres! 
For oh 1 those transient gleams of heaven. 
To calmer, purer spirits given, 
Children of hallow'd peace, are known 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon. 
To blow beneath the midnight moon. 
The garish world they will not bless. 
But only live in loneliness 1 
13* 



1^ A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY, 

Hark ! did some note of plaintive swell 

Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there? 
For wild and distant it arose, 
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose. 
When in lone wood, or mossy cave 
He dreams beside some fountain- wave. 
And fairy worlds delight the eyes 
Wearied with life's realities. 

— Was it illusion? — yet again 
Rises and falls th' enchanted strain. 

Mellow, and sweet, and faint, 
As if some spirit's touch had given 
The soul of sound to harp of heaven 

To soothe a dying saint ! 
Is it the mermaid's distant shell. 

Warbling beneath the moonlit wave ? 

— Such witching tones might lure full weF. 
The seaman to his grave ! 

Sure from no mortal touch ye rise. 

Wild, soft, aerial melodies ! 

— Is it the song of woodland-fay 

From sparry grot, or haunted bower? 
Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 

Draws near yon ivied tower ! 
Now nearer still, the listening ear 
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint, yet clear; 
And accents low, as if in fear. 

Thus murmur, half suppress'd; — 
" Awake ! the moon is bright on high. 
The sea is calm, the bark is nigb. 

The world is hush'd to rest ! '* 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 151 

Then sinks the voice — the strain is o'er, 
Its last low cadence dies along the shore. 

Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, 
Swift from her tower she glides along ; 
No echo to her tread awakes, 
Her fairy step no slumber breaks. 
And, in that hour of silence deep. 
While all around the dews of sleep 
O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, 
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, 
Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek 
And sudden pause, her doubts bespeak. 
The lip now flush'd, now pale as death. 
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath! 
Oh ! in that moment, o'er her soul. 
What struggling passions claim control ! 
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high. 
By turns have won th' ascendency ; 
And as, all tremulously bright. 
Streams o'er her face the beam of night. 
What thousand mix'd emotions play 
O'er that fair face, and melt away : 
Like forms whose quick succession gleams 
O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams ; 
Like the swift-glancing lights that rise 
'Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies. 

And traverse ocean o'er ; 
So in that full, impassion'd eye 
The changeful meanings rise and die, 

Just seen — and then no more! 



152 A TALE OP THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

But oh! too short that pause — again 
Thrills to her heart that witching strain: — 
" Awake ! the midnight moon is bright, 
Awake ! the moments wing their flight. 
Haste ! or they speed in vain !" 

O, call of love ! thy potent spell 
O'er that w^eak heart prevails too w^ell; 
The " still small voice" is heard no more 
That pleaded duty's cause before, 
And fear is hush'd, and doubt is gone, 
And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, 
Resumes its warmest, brightest red, 
Her step its quick elastic tread, 

Her eye its beaming smile ! 
Through lonely court and silent hall. 
Flits her light shadow o'er the wall, 
And still that low, harmonious call 

Melts on her ear the while ! 
Though love's quick ear alone could tell 
The words its accents faintly swell ; — 
" Awake, while yet the lingering night 
And stars and seas befriend our flight, 

O ! haste, while all is well ! ** 

The halls, the courts, the gates, are past. 
She gains the moonlit beach at last. 
Who waits to guide her trembling feet? 
Who flies the fugitive to greet ? 
He, to her youthful heart endear'd 
By all it e'er had hoped and feared, 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 153 

Twined with each wish, with every thought. 
Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought. 
Whose tints portray, with flattering skill. 
What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! 
— Alas! that aught so fair should fly. 
Thy blighting wand, Reality ! 

A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 
A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore, 
Disguise that vainly strove to hide 
Bearing and glance of martial pride; 
For he in many a battle scene 
On many a rampart-breach had been ; 
Had sternlv smiled at dang-er nigh, 
Had seen the valiant bleed and die. 
And proudly rear'd on hostile tower, 
'Midst falchion-clash, and arrowy shower, 

Britannia's banner high ! 
And though some ancient feud had taught 

His Bertha's sire to loathe his name. 
More noble warrior never fought, 

For glory's prize, or England's fame. 
And well his dark, commanding eye. 

And form and step of stately grace. 
Accorded with achievements high. 
Soul of emprize and chivalry. 

Bright name, and generous race ! 

His cheek, embrown'd by many a sun. 
Tells a proud tale of glory won. 
Of vigil, march, and combat rude. 
Valour, and toil, and fortitude ! 



154 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw 

Warm o'er that cheek, their vivid hue, 

His gallant soul, his stripling-form, 

Had braved the battle's rudest storm ; 

When England's conquering archers stood, 

And dyed thy plain, Poitiers, with blood. 

When shiver'd axe, and cloven shield, 

And shatter'd helmet, strew'd the field. 

And France around her King in vain. 

Had marshall'd valour's noblest train ; 

In that dread strife, his lightning eye, 

Had flash'd with transport keen and high, 

And 'midst the battle's wildest tide, 

Throbb'd his young heart with hope and pride. 

Alike that fearless heart could brave 

Death on the war-field or the wave; 

Alike in tournament or fight, 

That ardent spirit found delight ! 

Yet oft, 'midst hostile scenes afar. 

Bright o'er his soul a vision came, 
Rising, like some benignant star. 
On stormy seas, or plains of w^ar. 

To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, 

The heart that throbb'd to Bertha's name! 
And 'midst the wildest rage of fight, 
And in the deepest calm of night, 
To her his thoughts would wing their flight, 

With fond devotion warm ; 
Oft would those glowing thoughts portray 
Some home, from tumults far away. 

Graced with that angel form ! 
And now his spirit fondly deems 
FulfiU'd its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 155 

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow. 
In minstrel garb, attends the chief? 

The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 
Reveals a shade of grief. 

Sorrow and time have touch'd his face. 

With mournful yet majestic grace, 

Soft as the melancholy smile 

Of sunset on some ruin'd pile ! 

— It is the bard, whose song had power 

To lure the maiden from her tower; 

The bard whose wild, inspiring lays, 

E'en in gay childhood's earliest days. 
First woke, in Osbert's kindling breast, 
The flame that will not be represt. 

The pulse that throbs for praise ! 

Those lays had banish'd from his eye. 

The bright, soft tears of infancy. 

Had soothed the boy to calm repose, 

Had hush'd his bosom's earliest woes; 

And when the light of thought awoke, 

When first young reason's day-spring broke 

More powerful still, they bade arise 

His spirit's burning energies! 

Then the bright dream of glory warm'd, 

Then the loud pealing war-song charm'd. 

The legends of each martial line, 

The battle-tales of Palestine ; 

And oft, since then, his deeds had proved 

Themes of the lofty lays he loved ! 

Now, at triumphant love's command. 

Since Osbert leaves his native land. 

Forsaking glory's high career, 

For her, than glory far more dear: 



156 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

Since hope's gay dream, and meteor ray, 

To distant regions points his way, 

That there Affection's hands may dress, 

A fairy bower for happiness ; 

That fond, devoted bard, though now 

Time's wint'ry garland wreathes his brow, 

Though quench'd the sunbeam of his eye. 

And fled his spirit's buoyancy ; 

And strength and enterprise are past. 

Still follows constant to the last ! 

Though his sole wish was but to die 
'Midst the calm scenes of days gone by ; 
And all that hallows and endears 
The memory of departed years — 
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 
To those loved scenes, his pensive mind; 
Ah! what can tear the links apart, 
That bind his chieftain to his heart ? 
What smile but his with joy can light 
The eye obscured by age's night? 
Last of a loved and honour'd line. 
Last tie to earth in life's decline, 
Till death its lingering spark shall dim. 
That faithful eye must gaze on him ! 

Silent and swift, with footstep light. 
Haste on those fugitives of night : 
They reach the boat — the rapid oar 
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore — 
The bark is gain'd — a gallant few, 
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 157 

The pennant, in the moonlight beam, 

With soft suffusion glows ; 
From the white sail a silvery gleam. 

Falls on the wave's repose ; 
Long shadows undulating play, 
From mast and streamer, o'er the bay ; 
But still so hush'd the summer-air, 
They tremble, 'midst that scene so fair, 
Lest morn's first beam behold them there 
— Wake, viewless wanderer ! breeze of night. 
From river-wave, or mountain-height. 
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, 
By haunted spring, in forest bowers; 
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell. 
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell. 
And cavern'd gems their lustre throw 
O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow? 
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze. 
In solitary splendour blaze ; 
And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear. 
Swell through the deep's unfathom'd sphere? 
What grove of that mysterious world. 
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl'd ? 
Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove. 
Awake ! to guide the bark of love ! 
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 
Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale. 
E'en now — but lo ! the rustling sail 
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 
The bark glides on — their fears are o'er. 
Recedes the bold romantic shore, 

Vol. III. 14 



158 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

Its features mingling fast ; 
Gaze, Bertha, gaze, thy lingering eye 
May still each lovely scene descr}^ 

Of years for ever past ! 
There wave the v/oods, beneath whose shade. 
With bounding step, th}'- childhood play'd ; 
'Midst ferny glades, and mossj'' lawns, 
Free as their native birds and fawns; 
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float 
On each low breeze, 'nnidst dells remote 
The ringdove's deep, melodious moan. 
The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 
The wild-bee's hum, the aspen's sigh. 
The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. 
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour. 
There thy own mountains darkly tower ! 
'Midst their grey rocks no glen so rude. 
But thou hast loved its solitude ! 
No path so wild, but thou hast knovi^n 
And traced its rugged course alone ! 
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair, 
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. 
There, in the day-spring of thy years, 
Undimm'd by passions or by tears, 
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 
Wandered o'er ocean, earth, or sky. 
While the wild breeze that round thee blew. 
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue; 
Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 
Their clear and cloudless azure spread; 
Pure as that gale, whose light wing drew 
. Its freshness from the mountain dew ; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 159 

Glow'd thy young heart with feeHngs high, 

A heaven of hallow'd ecstasy ! 

Such days were thine ! ere love had drawn 

A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 

As the clear dews in morning's beam, 

With soft reflected colouring stream, 

Catch every tint of eastern gem, 

To form the rose's diadem ; 

But vanish when the noontide hour 

Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower ; 

Thus in thy soul each calm delight. 

Like morn's first dew-drops, pure and bright, 

Fled swift from passion's blighting fire. 

Or linger'd only to expire ! 

Spring, on thy native hills again, 
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise. 

And call forth, in each grassy glen, 
Her brightest emerald dyes ! 

There shall the lonely mountain-rose, 

Wreath of the cliflTs, again disclose ; 

'Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream, 

Shall sparkle in the summer beam ; 

The birch, o'er precipice and cave. 

Its feathery foliage still shall wave ; 

The ash 'midst rugged clefts unveil 

Its coral clusters to the gale. 

And autumn shed a warmer bloom. 

O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. 

But thy light footstep there no more. 

Each path, each dingle shall explore ; 

In vain may smile each green recess, 

— Who now shall pierce its loneliness? 



160 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

The stream through shadowy glens may stray, 

— Who now shall trace its glistening way? 
In solitude, in silence deep, 

Shrined 'midst her rocks, shall echo sleep, 
No lute's wild swell again shall rise, 
To wake her mystic melodies. 
All soft may blow the mountain air, 

— It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 
The mountain-rose may bloom and die, 

— It will not meet thy smiUng eye ! 
But like those scenes of vanish'd days, 

Shall others ne'er delight ; 
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, 

Yet seem not half so bright ! 
O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue. 

Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high; 
Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view 

That home of infancy ! 
Heed not the night-dew's chilling power. 
Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour, 
But pause, and linger on the deck. 
Till of those towers no trace, no speck. 

Is gleaming o'er the main ; 
For when the mist of morn shall rise. 
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, 
That home, once vanish'd from thine eyes. 

Shall bless them ne'er again ! 
There the dark tales and songs of yore. 

First with strange transport thrill'd thy soul. 
E'en while their fearful, mystic lore, 

From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 161 

There, while thy father's raptured ear. 
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, 
And in his eye the trembling tear 

Reveal'd his spirit's trance; 
How oft, those echoing halls along. 
Thy thrilling voice has swell'd the song. 
Tradition wild of other days. 
Of troubadour's heroic lays, 

Or legend of romance ! 
Oh ! manv an hour has there been thine. 

That memory's pencil oft shall dress 
In softer shades, and tints that shine 

In mellow'd loveliness ! 
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears. 

Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, 
The sunshine of thine early years, 

Scarce deem'd so radiant — till it set! 
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone. 
The bliss, till vanish'd, hardly known ! 

On rock and turret, wood and hill. 
The fading moonbeams linger still; 
Still, Bertha, gaze on yon grey tower. 
At evening's last and sweetest hour. 
While varying still, the western skies 
Flush'd the clear seas with rainbow-dyes. 
Whose warm suffusions glow'd and pass'd. 
Each richer, lovelier, than the last; 
How oft, while gazing on the deep. 
That seem'd a heaven of peace to sleep. 
As if its wave, so still, so fair, 
More frowning mien might never wear, 
14* 



162 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

The twilight calm of mental rest. 
Would steal in silence o'er thy breast, 
And wake that dear and balmy sigh, 
That softly breathes the spirit's harmony! 

— Ah! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given, 
Of joy on earth — so near allied to Heaven! 

Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye? 
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh ? 
Is there a grief his voice, his smile. 
His words, are fruitless to beguile ? 

— Oh ! bitter to the youthful heart. 
That scarce a pang, a care has known, 

The hour when first from scenes we part, 

Where life's bright spring has flown! 
Forsaking, o'er the world to roam. 
That little shrine of peace — our home ! 
E'en if delighted fancy throw 
O'er that cold world, her brightest glow. 
Painting its untried paths with flowers. 
That will not live in earthly bowers; 
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear 
One breath of life's ungenial air;) 
E'en if such dreams of hope arise. 
As Heaven alone can realize ; 
Cold were the breast that would not heave 
One sigh, the home of youth to leave ; 
Stern were the heart that would not swell 
To breathe life's saddest word — farewell! 
Though earth has many a deeper woe, 
Though tears, more bitter far, must flow, 
That hour, whate'er our future lot. 
That first fond grief, i^ ne'er forgot! 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 163 

Such was the pang of Bertha's heart, 

The thought, that hade the tear-drop start; 

And Osbert by her side 
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell 
Nature's fond struggle told too well; 
And days of future bliss portray'd, 
And love's own eloquence essay'd, 

To soothe his plighted bride ! 
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, 

In that sweet land to which they fly ; 
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells 

Of blooming Italy. 
For he had roved a pilgrim there. 
And gazed on many a spot so fair. 
It seem'd like some enchanted grove. 
Where only peace, and joy, and love. 
Those exiles of the world, might rove, 

And breathe its heavenly air ; 
And, all unmix'd with ruder tone, 
Their " wood-notes wild" be heard alone ! 

Far from the frown of stern control, 
That vainly would subdue the soul, 
There shall their long-affianced hands, 
Be joined in consecrated bands, 
And in some rich, romantic vale. 

Circled with heights of Alpine snow, 
Where citron-woods enrich the gale, 
And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 

And flowering myrtles blow ; 
And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high, 
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry: 



164 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

On some bright streamlet's emerald side, 
Where cedars wave, in graceful pride, 
Bosom'd in groves, their home shall rise, 
A shelter'd bower of Paradise ! 

Thus would the lover soothe to rest 

With tales of hope her anxious breast ; 

Nor vain that dear enchanting lore. 

Her soul's bright visions to restore. 

And bid gay phantoms of delight 

Float, in soft colouring, o'er her sight. 

— Oh ! youth, sweet May-morn, fled so soon. 

Far brighter than life's loveliest noon. 

How oft thy spirit's buoyant power 

Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour 

Prevailing o'er regret ! 
As rears its head th' elastic flower 
Though the dark tempest's recent shower 

Hang on its petals yet ! 

Ah 1 not so soon can hope's gay smile 

The aged bard to joy beguile; 

Those silent years that steal away 

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray. 

Win from the mind a nobler prize 

E'en all its buoyant energies! 

For him the April days are past. 

When grief was but a fleeting cloud: 
No transient shade will sorrow cast. 

When age the spirit's might has bow'd I 
And, as he sees the land grow dim. 
That native land, now lost to him. 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 165 

Fix'd are his eyes, and clasp'd his hands, 
And long in speechless grief he stands. 

So desolately calm his air, 
He seems an image, wrought to bear 
The stamp of deep, though hush'd despair; 
Motion and Hfe no sign bespeaks 
Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks. 

Just waves his silvery hair ! 
Nought else could teach the eye to know 
He was no sculptured form of woe ! 

Long gazing o'er the dark'ning flood. 
Pale in that silent grief he stood ; 
Till the cold moon was waning fast. 

And many a lovely star had died, 
And the grey heavens deep shadows cast 

Far o'er the slumbering tide; 
And robed in one dark solemn hue. 
Arose the distant shore to view. 
Then, starting from his trance of woe. 
Tears, long suppress'd, in freedom flow, 
While thus his wild and plaintive strain 
Blends with the murmur of the main. 

THE BARD'S FAREWELL. 

Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 

Arc trembling on the shadowy deep. 
The land, now fading from my gaze, 

These eyes in vain shall weep ; 
And wander o'er the lonely sea, 
And fix their tearful glance on thee. 
On thee ! whose lisiht so softiv srleams 
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams. 



166 A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

But, 'midst those ancient groves, no more 

Shall I thy quivering lustre hail, 
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour. 

To swell a foreign gale ; 
The rocks, the v^oods, whose echoes woke, 
When its full tones their stillness broke, 
Deserted now, shall hear alone. 
The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan. 

And oh ! ye fair, forsaken halls. 

Left by your lord to slow decay. 
Soon shall the trophies on your walls 

Be mouldering fast away ! 
There shall no choral songs resound. 
There shall no festal board be crown'd; 
But ivy wreathe the silent gate. 
And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate. 

No banner from the stately tower. 

Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high. 

There the wild brier and summer flower, 
Unmark'd, shall wave and die. 

Home of the mighty ! thou art lone. 

The noonday of thy pride is gone. 

And, 'midst thy solitude profound, 
A step shall echo like unearthly sound I 

From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light. 

Nor welcome, with convivial rays. 
Some pilgrim of the night; 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 167 

But there shall grass luxuriant spread, 
As o'er the dwellings of the dead ; 
And the deep swell of every blast, 
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past 

And I — my joy of life is fled. 

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow, 
The raven locks that graced my head, 

Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose, 
I deem'd life's lingering ray should close. 
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade. 
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play*d. 

Vain dream ! that tomb in distant earth 

Shall rise> forsaken and forgot ; 
And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth, 

A grave must yield me not ! 
Yet, haply he for whom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve. 
When cold the hand, and closed the lays, 
And mute the voice he loved to praise. 
O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed. 
And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed! 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 



'TwAS night in Babylon: yet many a beam. 
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean skv. 
Whose azure knows no cloud : each whisper'd sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers; 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her towers. 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, 
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band. 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand 
Had shower'd around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ; all sweets of many a land, 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore ; 
— But mortal pride look'd on, and still demanded more. 

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may svv^ell the exulting strain ! 
The lord of nations spoke, — and forth were brought 
The spoils of Salem's devast?ited fane. 



BELSHAZZAR S FEAST. 169 

Thrice holy vessels! — pure from earthly stain. 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him, 
Who deign'd within the oracle to reign, 
Reveal'd, yet shadowed ; making noonday dim. 
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim. 

They came, and louder peaPd the voice of song. 
And pride flash'd brighter from the kindling eye, 
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng. 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! — Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old ! 

Peace! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadcw'd forth, the senses to appal. 
Yon fearful vision? — Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause? — Along the illumined wall, 
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all. 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand, 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall, 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant 
land ! 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board. 
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, 
And fitful starts! — the wine, in triumph pour'd, 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, 
Vol. III. 15 



170 belshazzar's feast. 

The waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, 
Trembles before a shadow! — Say not so! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight, 
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging 
Infinite 1 

"But haste ye! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers, 
The men of prescience! — haply to their eyes. 
Which track the future through the rolling spheres. 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies." 
They come — the readers of the midnight skies, 
They that gave voice to visions — but in vain! 
Stili wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies. 
It hath no language 'midst the starry train. 
Earth has no gifted tongue Heaven's mysteries to 
explain. 

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires. 

And other inspiration! — one of those 

Who on the willows hung their captive lyres. 

And sat, and wept, where Babel's river flows. 

His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose 

Of his pure features half o'eraw'd the mind, 

Telling of inward mysteries — joys and woes 

In lone recesses of the soul enshrined ; 

Depths of a being seal'd and sever'd from mankind. 

Yes! — what was earth to him, whose spirit pass'd 
Time's utmost bounds? — on whose unshrinking sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence? — Majesty and might 



belshazzar's feast. 171 

Were in his dreams; — for him the veil of light 
Shrouding Heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne, 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright 
Was raised! — to him, in fearful splendour shown, 
Ancient of Days ! e'en Thou mad'st thy dread pre- 
sence known. 

He spoke: — the shadows of the things to come 
Pass'd o'er his soul: — "O King, elate in pride! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom — 
The one, the living, God by thee defied ! 
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 
Hath weigh 'd, and found thee wanting. 'Tis decreed 
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide. 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 
Thy days are full — they come, — the Persian and the 
Mede ! " 

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round — 
A breathless pause! — the hush of hearts that beat, 
And limbs that quiver: — Is there not a sound, 
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet? 
— 'Twas but some echo in the crowded street. 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song. 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet. 
That speeds the stars their joyous course along — 
Away ; nor let a dream disturb the festal throng ! 

Peace yet again ! Hark ! steps in tumult flying. 
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle-field ! 
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield I 



172 belshazzar's feast. 

And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst : and, blent with these, 
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal'd 
In their full mirth; — all deepening on the breeze. 
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas! 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling. 

Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry; 

And, lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelHng, 

Death — bursting on the halls of revelry ! 

Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, 

The sword hath raged through joy's devoted train; 

Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 

Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane ; 

Empire is lost and won — Belshazzar with the slain.* 

^ As originally written, the following additional stanzas (after- 
wards omitted) concluded this poem : — 

Fallen is the golden city! — in the dust, 
Spoil'd of her crown, dismantled of her state, 
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust, 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate. 
Thronging in homage, shall be call'd no more 
Lady of kingdoms ? Who shall mourn her fate ? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er — 
What widow'd land shall now her widowhood deplore? 

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters I — thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disown'd 
The Mighty Name it blazons! — veil thy head. 
Daughter of Babylon ! — the sword is red 
From thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud ! — for thou hast said, 
" I am, and none beside!" Th' Eternal spoke: 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke! 



belshazzar's feast. 173 

But go thou forth, O Israel ! — wake ! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day! 
Renew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels! — loose the chain, and say 
God hath redeem'd his people ! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise! 
— Awake! — put on thy beautiful array, 
O long-forsaken Zion ! — To the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies! 

And lift thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning, 
Redeem'd from exile, ransom'd from the chain, 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain. 
Because her children were not — dwells again, 
Girt with the lovely! — through thy streets, once more 
City of God ! shall pass the Bridal train. 
And the bright lamf)s their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns thy youth of joy restore ! 

15* 



THE 



LAST CONSTANTINE. 



Thou strivest nobly, 

When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk ; 

And o'er thy fall if it be so decreed, 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears. 

Fame I look not for, 

But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye. 
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride. 
The dignity and honour of a man. 
Thus statlon'd as I am, I will do all 
That man may do. 

Miss Baillie's Constantine Palceologus. 



(175) 



THE 



LAST CONSTANTINE 



I. 

The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died 
— Shout, for the City of the G)nstantines, 
The rising City of the billow-side, 
The City of the Cross! — great Ocean's bride, 
Crown'd from her birth she sprung! — Long ages 

pass'd, 
And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet Barbaric riches cast, 
Pour'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 

11. 

Long ages past — they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broider'd her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frown'd in their strength ; yet there were signs 

which told 
The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leafs fold 

C177) 



178 THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 

Disturbed her dreams; and call'd her slaves to 
keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 
o'er the deep. 

III. 

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelhng, 
Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury woo*d ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows, 
And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. 

IV. 

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant pines! Across the seas 
A murmvir comes, like that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crown'd Eurotas; when, of old. 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave which would not be controH'd, 
But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom 
roll'd. 

V. 

And it is thus again! — Swift oars are dashing 
The parted waters, and a light is cast 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 179 

On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep. 
Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past. 
Where low 'midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral 

heap. 

VI. 

War from the West! — the snows on Thracian hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er 

the lands 
Which Hyemus girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East! — 'midst Araby's lone sands. 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ishmael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the Sea ; (1) 

— Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylas I 

VII. 

Hear yet again, ye mighty! — where are they, 
W^ho, with their green Olympic garlands crown'd, 
Leap'd up in proudly beautiful array. 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion? — far and joyous round. 
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows. 
And the low svlvan vallevs, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they rose ! 

— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's repose ? 



180 THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 

VIII. 

They slumber with their swords ! — Ihe olive shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 
In vain the spirit of the past pervades 
The soft winds breathing through each Grecian 

vale. 
— Yet must thou wake, though all unarm'd and 

pale, 
Devoted City! — Lo! the Moslem's spear, 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, 

may hear ! 

IX. 

Be hush'd, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales! — The sons of each brave line. 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry. 
And seize the arms which flash'd round Salem's 
shrine, 
And wield for you the swords once waved for Pa- 
lestine ! 

X. 

All still, all voiceless; — and the billow's roar 
Alone replies! — Alike their so\x\ is gone. 
Who shared the funeral feast on CEta's shore. 
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon 



THE LAST COMSTANTINE. 181 

Svvell'd the crusader's hymn ! — Then gird thou on 
Thine armour, Eastern Queen ! and meet the hour, 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is 

done, 
With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
Unshiver'd through the storm, for generous hope is 



power ! 



XI. 



But Hnger not, — array thy men of might! 
The shores, the seas are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress-groves are gleaming 

bright. 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, 
Which the deep grave alone is charter'd not to hear. 

XII. 

Away ! bring wine, bring odours to the shade, (2) 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must die! — 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by. 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower, or pillar'd hall ; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call, 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will fall. 
Vol. III. 16 



182 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



XIII. 

The night, the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven. 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cUff and tower 
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 
lower. 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow'd hour. 

XIV. 

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth. 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas. 
From the Seven Towers, (3) their banner waves 

its sign. 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze. 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine ; 
Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 

XV. 

Was Rome thy parent ? Didst thou catch from her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye ? 
— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die ! 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 183 

Heir of the Caesars ! did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass'd 
With its long march of sceptred imagery, (4) 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
— Thou of an eagle-race the noblest and the last! 



XVL 

Vain dreams! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories fraught, 
And fcir within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting place on buoyant wing is sought, 
(Though through its veil, seen darkly from the dust,) 
In realms where Time no more hath power upon 
the just. 

XVII. 

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst the array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away, (5) 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands, as his voice who started, 
Caird on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades; then fear- 
less-hearted. 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed. 



184 THE LAST CONST ANTINB. 



XVIII. 



But then, around him as the javeHns rush'd. 
From earth to heaven swell'd up the loud acclaim ; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gushM, 
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name. 
Far floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life in fiery feeling ! Valour's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed. 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died — and had 
his meed. 

XIX. 

But praise— and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, 
Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
Uncheer'd by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal food 
Of hearts press'd earthwards by a weight of cares. 
Of restless energies, and only view'd 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places; have subdued 
And vow'd themselves, with strength till then 
unknown, 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 

XX. 

Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm'd mankind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song. 
Garland and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 185 

But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 



XXI. 

Well might thy name, brave G)nstantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling! — But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists ! the camp, the 

plain. 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
With its bright cross fix'd high in crowning grace ; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main. 
And, circling all with arms, that turban'd race, 
The sun, the desert, stamp'd in each dark, haughty 



face. 



XXII. 



Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters ! (6) Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming. 
Is Hope's own smile ! they crowd the swelling sail, 
On, with the foam, the sun-beam, and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
And oh ! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore ' 
16* 



18G THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

XXIII. 

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's coast. 
All throng'd ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch girt with his barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar. 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement. 
Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar 
The promised aid ; but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line is rent ', 

XXIV. 

On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy shower. 
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way. 
And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour, 
Furl'd their white sails, and anchor'd in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay. 
Then the Greek wines flow'd mantling in the light 
Of festal halls; — and there was joy! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright. 
The sunset of the soul ere lost to mortal sight ! 

XXV. 

For, vain that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play. 
Comes powerful as when Heaven unbinds the deep ! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep ! 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep 
Flies far ; and in their mien, the v^'alls who tread. 
Things by the brave untold, may fearfully be read ! 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 187 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguered wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll'd, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ! 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, 
The giant-shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the graves ; a low, mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain 
A voice of omens rose, with each wild martial strain. 

XXVII. 

For they might catch the Arab charger's neighing. 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song, 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying. 
The watch-word mutter'd in some eastern tongue. 
Then flash'd the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose: 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 

strong ; 
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their numbered hours fast pressing to the 

close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the mightiest! There is one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 
Whose cheek grows paler with each morning sun. 
And tells in silence how the night hath been, 



188 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

In kingly halls, a vigil: yet serene, 
And there is that in his collected mien, 
To which the hearts of noble men reply, 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 

XXIX. 

Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate. 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life where'er their path may be. 
Still following fast ; as when the wind hath blown 
O'er Indian groves, (7) a wanderer wild and free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree ! 

XXX. 

And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 

On evil days, thou Caesar ! yet the few 

That set their generous bosoms to the blast 

Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the true, 

Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 

The free devotion of the years gone by, 

When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength! — states vanish — ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to suffer and to die ! 

XXXI. 

These are our nature's heritage. But thou. 
The crown'd with Empire ! thou wert call'd to 
share 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 189 

A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear. 
Which long had pass'd away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care; 
And, with all this, to smile ! for earth-born frame 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 
to fame ! 

XXXIL 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel'd 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud nature's ! But her meteor-light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds ; it falls not where, 
In silence, and in secret, and in night. 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit- 
ness'd prayer. 

XXXIII. 

Men have been firm in battle : they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains. 
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood. 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes. 
That so their children, undefiled with chains. 
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Link'd but to perish with a ruin'd land. 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a mar- 
tyr-band ! 



190 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

XXXIV. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, 
Reck'd not which champion ; but prepared the 

strain. 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror ; while, with calm disdain, 
The vanquish'd proudly met the doom he met in vain. 

XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by Misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed. 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

and throne. 

XXXVI. 

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air. 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears ; no meteor-banners glare. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 191 

No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair, 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thinn'd ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruin'd heaps where walls and towers 
have been ! 

XXXVII. 

It is a night of beauty ; such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade. 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright. 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts : a night, to rove alone. 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

sway'd, 
And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds un- 
known. 

XXXVIII. 

A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards : a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old ; 
A night for mourners, o'er the hallow'd mould, 
To strew sweet flowers; for revellers to fill 
And wreathe the cup ; for sorrows to be told. 
Which love hath cherish'd long; — vain thoughts! 
be still! 
— It is a night of fate, stamped with Almighty Will I 



192 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending 
The ancient summits in its dread career ! 
And with vast billows wrath fully contending, 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every sphere ! 
— But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear. 
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 
Alike in His omnipotence is near, 
When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway 
blow. 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch-moun- 
tain's brow. 

XL. 

The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hush'd Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream 
Sleeps, with its paler stars, the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, (8) in the moon-light gleam 
Towers radiantty, as when the Pagan's dream 
Throng'd it with gods, and bent the adoring knee 
— But that is past — and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts; but earth, air, sea. 
And time, which presses on, to finish his decree. 

XLI. 

Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye, the thrones 

And temples of a visionary might. 

Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, 

And mantling thence the realms beneath with night: 

Ye have look'd down on battles ! Fear, and Flight, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 193 

And armM Revenge, all hurrying past below ! 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranquil brov/, 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow! 

XLII. 

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth ! — Wild horn, and war-steeds* 

tramp, 
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry. 
The clash of desert-spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on. 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, 
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone, 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 

Lebanon ! 

XLIIL 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
AVhich wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, per- 
chance 
Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep. 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful ; but the lance. 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers 
spread, 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead. 
Vol. m. 17 



194 THE LAST CONST ANTING. 

XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush? — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst thnt dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny, 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space. 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene. 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect, (9) and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen. 

XLV. 

Oh ! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood! — But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assign'd 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep. 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must 
sleep. 

XLVI. 

But ye ! that beam'd on Fate's tremendous night, 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly view'd the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet-blast 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 195 

Rung through the Capitol ; bright spheres ! roll on ! 
Still bright, though empires fall ; and bid man cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the 
past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wreck'd cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair. 
Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day. 
And thrills the soul; — yet bids us not despair, 
But make one rock our shelter and our stay. 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 

XLVIII. 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hush'd waters tremulously fall, 
Pour'd from the Caesars' palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall. 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall, 
Soft, graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XLIX. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more. 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hush'd seaman, gliding past the shore. 



196 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

How monarchs revel there! — Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? 
— -I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were 
made ! 

L. 

In silence, and in arms ! With helm — with sword — 
These are no marriage-garments! — Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely 

brow 
With an imperial diadem! (10) — but thou, 
O fated prince ! art call'd, and these with thee. 
To darker scenes; and thou hast learn'd to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree. 
And count it joy enough to perish — being free ! 

LI. 

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread. 
As men that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The warriors pass : their measured steps are 

slow, 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go, 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls. 
Sad seems the light itself, which on their armour 

falls ! 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 197 

LII. 

And they have reach'd a gorgeous chamber, bright 
With all we dream of splendour ; yet a gloom 
Seems gather'd o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! — Hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already? — Where is He, the One, 
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 

LIII. 

Oh ! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions! — when the storm beats 

loud, 
When the strong towers are tottering to their base, 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the crowd? 
— Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! — Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening bow'd. 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower. 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power ! 

LIV. 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak 
In the deep human heart more gloriously. 
Than in the bursting thunder ! — Thence the weak, 
They that seem'd form'd, as flower-stems, but to 

break 

17* 



198 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose 

name 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek. 
And thrill the pulse ! — Ay, strength no pangs could 

tame 
Hath look'd from woman's eye upon the sword and 

flame ! 

LV. 

And this is of such hours! — That throne is void, 
And its lord comes, uncrown'd. Behold him stand, 
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy'd 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band. 
The gather'd virtue of a sinking land, 
Alas! how scanty! — Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ! each noble hand 
Is prest by turns in his: for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath 
died! 

LVI. 

A moment's hush — and then he speaks, he speaks! 
But not of hope ! — that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory — as he seeks. 
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye. 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall I 



THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 109 



LVII. 

His words are full of faith! — And thoughts, more 

high 
Than Rome e'er knew, now fill his glance with 

light; 
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright. 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame 
The bravest in such moments! — 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, 
— That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame I 

LVIII. 

They weep — those champions of the cross — they 

weep. 
Yet vow themselves to death! — Ay, 'midst that 

train 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice! — The pang is vain. 
And yet its gush of sorrow shal' not stain 
A warrior's sword. — Those men are strangers 

here (11) — 
The homes, they never may behold again. 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more 

shall steer ! 



200 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

LIX. 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers ? (12) 
Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's 

dyes? 
It is their own. They see their fathers' towers, 
*Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise: 
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes. 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sail's return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
— Oh ! what a crowded world one moment may 

contain ! 

LX. 

Such moments come to thousands! — few may die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave. 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wave 
Are scatter'd fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hail, 
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 
to all! 

LXI. 

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell. 
Though they were those once blooming at our side 
In youth's gay home ! — Away ! what sound's deep 
swell 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 201 

Comes on the wind? — It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night ! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell. 
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

LXII. 

Again, and yet again ! — A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever ; for they bear 
Full on remembrance each eventful hour. 
Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's ; and when young brides are led 
From their paternal homes; and when the glare 
Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves red. 
And when the silent house receives its guest — the 
dead. (13) 

LXIII. 

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given, 
On that last night of empire! — As a spell 
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven. 
On the chill'd heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away. 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell. 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's decay 

LXIV. 

Again, and yet again! — from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awfully ; and they 



202 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

Who never more to rest in mortal home 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band in close and arm'd array, 
As men that from the sword must part no more, 
Take through the midnight streets their silent way. 
Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o'er. 

LXV. 

It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed. 
In the beleagur'd city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread. 
But not the less with signs and sounds of dread. 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street, 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why 
they meet. 

LXVI. 

Their homes are luxury's yet: why pour they 

thence 
W^ith a dim terror in each restless eye? 
Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence. 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by. 
And rock'd their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind pass'd ? — From couch and joyous 

board 
Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die? 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 203 

— No! — what are these? — for them a cup is 
pour'd (14) 
More dark with wrath; — Man comes — the spoiler 
and the sword. 

LXVII. 

Still as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues deeply red, like lava's which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in 

prayer, 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears ; all outward 

shows 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : 
Greeks ! Romans ! all but such as image brave 
despair ! 

LXVIII. 

But high above that scene in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems. 
Pale, grand, colossal ; lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion! — Yet 'twas man that caught. 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 
thought ! 



201 THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 

LXIX. 

Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? 
That Rome which witness'd in her sceptred days, 
So much of noble death? — When shrine and dome, 
'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays. 
As the long triumph pass'd with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne. 
Oh sovereign forms, concentering all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? — did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and to 
mourn ? 

LXX. 

Hath it been thus? — Or did ye grace the halls. 
Once peopled by the mighty? — Haply there, 
In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair. 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air. 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet's 
flow: (15) 
— Behold again! — high hearts make nobler oflfer- 
ings now ! 

LXXI. 

The stately fane is reach'd — and at its gate 
The warriors pause ; on life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state 
Hath mark'd from all, to be more wternly tried 



THE LAST COINSTANTINE. 205 

By suffering, speaks; — each ruder voice hath died. 
While his implores forgiveness! — "If there be 
One 'midst your throngs, my people! — whom in 

pride, 
Or passion, I have v^Tong'd ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man to 

me." 

LXXII. 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies! — He hath not been of ihose 
Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose, 
For they have heard the voice cry, " sleep no 

more ! " 
Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er. 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's throne 

before ! 

Lxxni. 

He hath been loved — but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race? — in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials, — yet behold, 
And call him not forsaken, — thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. — What pomps unfold 
Within its precincts! — isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' impe- 
rial dead ! 
Vol. III.- 18 



206 THE LAST CONSTANTINE, 

LXXIV. 

'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 
Of ancient days ! — the lamps are streaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillar'd isle, 
Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Developes on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the vein'd marbles, which array their height, 
And from yon dome, (16) the lode-star of all eyes, 
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's own 

hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie; 
Though tints, of sun-burnt glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic : pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Caesars lie, 
Beneath their trophies ; pause not here, for know, 
A deeper source of all .sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show 
In nature or in art, above, around, below. 

LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze, 
Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling forms alone, 
Thus bow'd, look glorious here. The light is thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 207 

A sufferer! — but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd, 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 

Once — and hut once — to meet on earth again! 

Each in the strength of a collected heart. 

To dare what man may dare — and know 't is vain I 

The rite is o'er, and thou, majestic fane ! 

The glory is departed from thy brow ! 

Be clothed with dust ! — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must bow. 
Thy kingly tombs be spoil'd ; thy golden shrines laid 

low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star. 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn. 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war. 
As if young Hope with Twilight's rays were born. 
Awhile the city sleeps I — her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire ; 
Nor is the balmy air of day-spring torn 
With battle sounds; (17) the winds in sighs expire. 
And Quiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps! — ay! on the combat's eve. 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 



208 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve 

Thus from her cares. The brave have slumbered 

well, 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell, 
Chain'd between Life and Death ! — Such rest be 

thine, 
For conflicts wait thee still! — Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may 

shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream! — Sleep, weary Constan- 

tine! 

LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise? — the clouded East is red. 
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread. 
The soft and smother'd step, of those that fear 
Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark ! yet more near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sere, 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 
bound I 

LXXXI. 

Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore, as- 
cending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders, rending 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice to which the seas reply I 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 209 

And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway. 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 
sky! 

LXXXII. 

Tfiey fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong. 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
Shall those high energies be vainly shown ? 
No ! from their towers th' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Red-Sea waves, when God had 

blown 
With his strong winds ! (18) — the dark-brow'd 

ranks are riven — 
Shout, warriors of the cross! — for victory is of 

Heaven ! 

LXXXIII. 

Stand firm! — Again the crescent host is rushing. 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep. 
With all their fires and darts, thouafh blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm! — there yet is hope — th' ascent is 

steep, 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain. 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 

again ! 

18* 



210 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds! — the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, 
The deep, dull tambour's beat ! — man's voice alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and 

moan. 
All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory ! 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city! — through their 

dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze, 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun. 
From the Greek fire shoots up; (19) and lightning 

rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze. 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air 1 
— Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze, — 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there. 
Workings of Wrath, and Death, and Anguish, and 

Despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Woe, shame and woe ! — A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
— Oh God! that nature's passing agonies 
Thus o'er the spark which dies not should prevail ! 
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 211 

And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son! (20) 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 
— But there are tortures which thou canst noC 
shun, 
The spirit is their prey; — thy pangs are but begun ! 

LXXXVII. 

Oh ! happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed, 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name : 
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years ; from many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame. 
And stars drop, fading, from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change 

for them ! 

LXXXVIII. 

Where art thou, Constantinel — Where Death is 

reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! Where the stormy light, 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping. 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday-night ? 
Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height. 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, 
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply. 



212 THE LAST CONST ANTINE. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou, Constantine? — Where Christian 

blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the cross lie strew'd. 
Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, 
And through the breach press on the o'erwhelming 

multitude. 

XC. 

Now is he battling 'midst a host alone. 
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 
Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 
Its forest-brethren in their green array ! 
And he hath cast his purple robe away. 
With its imperial bearings; that his sworci 
An iron ransom from the chain may pay, 
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord, 
A soldier's death, the all now left an empire's lord ! 

XCI. 

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave! 
Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shatter 'd helms and shields, which could not 
save; 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 213 

And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven ! — He is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, 
Yet wake them not! — so deep their long and last 
repose ! 

XCII. 

Woe to the vanquished! thus it hath been still, 
Since Time's first march ! — Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 
Ay ! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek! — The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twas your choice, thus, rather thus, to die, 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 
fast. 
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the 
last! 

XCIII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! — Men have made, 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children play'd. 
And by the hearths, round which their household 

band 
At evening met ; ay ! struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep. 
To guard free homes! — but ye! kneel, tremblers! 

kneel and weep ! 



214 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

XCIV. 

'Tis eve — the storm hath died — the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is done. 
And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim Barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell. 
The Soldan comes within the Caesars' halls to dwell ! 

xcv. 

Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong. 

He comes, the Moslem treads those ancient halls ! 

But all is stillness there, as Death had long 

Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 

And half that silence of the grave appals 

The conqueror's heart. Ay, thus with Triumph's 

hour. 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er Grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier 

Power ! 

XCVI. 

" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web! "(21) Still darkly 

hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone. 
O'er his flush'd spirit. Years on years have flown 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 215 

To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coil'd snake may bask on sculptured 

stone, 
And nations clear the forests, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 

there ! 

XCVII. 

But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crown'd leader in such hours should die. 
Upon the pyre of shiver'd spears art lying. 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy. 
And banners for thy shroud! — No tear, no sigh, 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! rear'd on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow; 
But where no change can reach, there, Constantino, 
art thou ! 

XCVIII. 

"After life's fitful fever, thou sleep 'st well!" 
We may not mourn thee ! — Sceptred chiefs, from 

whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling— to a sterner doom 
Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's 

gloom, 
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb. 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weighed 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay'd. 



216 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

XCIX. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of Death — but not like thee! 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appealed their blood, 
But thou didst fall unfettered, arm'd, and free. 
And kingly to the last ! — And if it be 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvels none 
Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth ; still may'st thou hail the sun. 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's 
fight is won ! 

C. 

And the hour comes, in storm! — A light is glan- 
cing 

Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades 
— 'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing. 

Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; 

A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, 

Round dark Cithseron, and by Delphi's steep ; 
— 'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids. 

Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep ! 

CI. 

Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old. 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson as they roU'd 
The Persian helm and standard to the main; 



THE LAST COT^STANTINE. 217 

And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, 
Far as Platgea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crown'd so proudly there the bowl of liberty ! (22) 



CII. 



Bright land with glory mantled o'er by song! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along. 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes 
To verse for ever ; and of ruin'd shrines 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams. 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines ! 
-When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their 
vines ? 

ClIL 

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear ! 
— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantinaea's earth? — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave ? 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins? — And shall man, a slave, 
Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine? 
-If e'er a soil was mark'd for Freedom's step — *tis 

thine ! 
Vol. IIL — 1<J 



218 THE LAST CONSTANTINE, 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle-showers ! 
— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers. 
In the Comneni's halls (23) the Tartar sways: 
But not for long! — the spirit of those days, 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle. 

CV. 

If then 'tis given thee to arise in might. 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain, 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign. 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust ! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain. 
She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable — but 
just. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 219 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

While IshmaeVs how^ ^c. 

The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege of Constanti- 
nople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who 
were not enrolled amongst the regular troops. The Sultan him- 
self marched upon the city from Adrianople ; but his army must 
have been principally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he 
had previously visited. 

Note 2. 

Bring wine, bring odours, <^c. 

Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amcenae ferre jube rosae. 

Hor. lib. ii. od. 3. 

Note 3. 

From the Seven Towers, <^c. 

The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine 
history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an 
edifice which contributed materially to the defence of Constanti- 
nople ; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast 
of the Propontis, in the latter periods of the empire. For a de- 
scription of this building, see Pouqueville^s Travels. 

Note 4. 

With its long march of sceptred imagery. 

An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at 
the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors. 



220 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

Note 5. 

The Roman cast his glittering mail away. 

The following was the ceremony of consecration with which 
Decius devoted himself in battle. He was ordered by Valerius, 
the pontifex maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the 
robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with 
a veil ; commanded him to put forth his hand under his robe tc 
his chin, and standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat 
these words: "O Janus, Jupitor, Mars, Romulus, Bellona, and ye 
Lares and Novensiles ! All ye heroes who dwell in heaven, and 
all ye gods who rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods 
of hell ! I honour you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to 
prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all fear and ter- 
ror from them to their enemies ; and I do, for the safety of the 
Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, and with myself 
the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to the infernal gods, and 
the goddess of the earth." Decius then, girding his robe around 
him, mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the thickest of 
the enemy's battalions. The Latins were, for a while, thunder- 
struck at this spectacle; but at length recovering themselves, 
they discharged a shower of darts, under which the consul fell. 

Note 6. 
Lo! Christian pennons streaming 



Red o'er the waters! d^c. 

See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five Chris- 
tian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the be- 
sieged, not many days before the fall of Constantinople. De- 

dine and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215. 

Note 7. 
As when the wind hath blown 



O'er Indian groves, <^c. 
The summits of the lofty rocks in the Camatic, particularly 
about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, 
which grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity, 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 221 

that in the sultry season of the year the friction occasioned hy a 
strong dry wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which fre- 
quently setting the woofls in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator sta- 
tioned in a valley surrounded by rocks, a mao^nificent, though im- 
perfect circle of fire. Notes to Kindersley's Specimens of 

Hindoo Literature. 

Note 8. 

The snowy crown 

Of far Olympus, <^c. 

Those who steer their westward course through the middle of 
the Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and 
Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount 

Olympus, covered with eternal snows. Decline and Fall., <^c, 

vol. iii. p. 8. 

Note 9. 
Mohammed^s face 



Kindles beneath their aspect, <^c. 

Mahomet II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. 
His calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning 
of the 29th of May as the fortunate hour for a general attack 
upon the city. 

Note 10. 

Thy Georgian bride, dfc. 

Constantine Palseologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess -, 
and the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople 
had been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride 
to that city. 

Note 11. 

Those men are strangers here. 

Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand 
for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were 
foreigners and chiefly Italians. 
19* 



222 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

Note 12. 

Know' St thou the landj ^c. 

This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a 
beautiful song of Goethe's : 

Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bluhn 
Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn? &c. 

Note 13. 

The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in 
Schiller's poem "Das Lied der Glocke." 

Note 14. 

Hath the fierce phantom, <^c. 

It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced 
by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the streets 
at midnight ; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, 
who summons the devoted person by name. 

Note 15. 

Ye smiled on banquets of despair, <^c. 

Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons 
resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That 
of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable. 

Note 16. 

Yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes. 

For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, 
employed in the construction of St. Sophia, see The Decline and 
Fall, <^c. vol. vii. p. 120, 

Note 17. 

Nor is the balmy air of day-spring torn 
With battle-sounds, ^c. 

The assault of the city took place at day-break, and the Turks 
were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also beeK 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 223 

commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This 
circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy 
of Constantine PalsBologus ; 

"Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor trump, 

Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 

Our near approach betray: silent and soft. 

As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 

Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey." 

Constantine PalcBologus, Act iv. 

" The march and labour of thousands" must, however, as Gibbon 
observes, " have inevitably produced a strange confusion of dis- 
cordant clamours ; which reached the ears of the watchmen on 
the towers." 

Note 18. 
The dark-browed ranks are riven. 



" After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and 
preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The strenuous exer- 
tions of the Janizaries first turned the fortune of the day. 

Note 19. 

From the Greek fire shoots up, ^r. 

" A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantino- 
ple is the reunion of the ancient and modern artillery. The 
bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the same wall; 
nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the 

liquid and unextinguishable fire." Decline and Fall, (fc^ 

vol. xii. p. 213. 

Note 20. 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son ! 

" The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the 
bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniana 
(a Genoese chief) The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, 
appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were 

the firmest rampart of the city." Decline and Fall, dfc, vol. 

xii. p. 229. 



224 THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 

Note 21. 

The owl upon Afrasiab^s towers hath sung 
Her watch-song^ ^c. 

Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the 
Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and 
desolation which reigned within its precincts. " A melancholy 
reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on 
his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry ; 
' The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl 
hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.'" De- 
cline and Fall, <^c., vol. xii. p. 240. 

Note 22. 
The howl of liberty. 

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platsea was 
annnually commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called 
the Bowl of Liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in liba- 
tion. 

Note 23. 

In the ComnenVs halls, ^c. 

The Conmeni were amongst the most distinguished of the 
families who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years 
of the eastern empire. 



GREEK SONGS. 



I.— THE STORM OF DELPHI.* 

Far through the Delphian shades 
An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rush'd on high, 
With a sounding flight through the fiery sk}^ ; 
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades. 
To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 
All waving as a flame. 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed. 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes, told 
That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 

On his quiver and his crest; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless orient burning lay. 
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 

As onward his thousands press'd. 

* See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece. 

(225) 



226 GREEK SONGS. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way. 
And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay. 
Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 

A gloom fell o'er their way! 
'Twas not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine boughs, as they cross'd the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue; — 
The air was fill'd with a mightier sway — 
But on the spearmen pass'd ! 

And hollow to their tread. 

Came the echoes of the ground, 
And banners droop'd, as with dews o'erborne, 
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 
Had an alter'd cadence, dull and dead. 
Of strange foreboding sound. 

But they blew a louder strain. 

When the steep defiles were pass'd ! 
And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose, 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows. 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone. 
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile. 

Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain-throne. 



THE STORM OF DELPHI. 827 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble-walls replied, 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out. 
Till their hearts for terror died I 

On the armour of the god. 

Then a viewless hand was laid; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din 
And corslet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode. 
And before its front array'd. 

And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild-bird's wing, and the myrtle spray, 
And the very founts, in their silvery way. 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon 1 
'T was not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towersj 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon — 
That battle-noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It roll'd from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment of the mountain blast. 
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd. 

And the purple gloom of the sky was riven. 
When the thunder peal'd aloud. 



228 GREEK SONGS. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown ; 
Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow, 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray, 
And the banners were struck down ! 

And the massy oak-boughs crash'd 
To the fire-bolts from on high, 
And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore. 

And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd, 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rush'd the Delphian men 
On the pale and scatter'd host ; 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave, 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 
Roll'd on, with the spears they toss'd. 

There were cries of wild dismay. 
There were shouts of w^arrior-glee. 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 

But the mount of song, when they died away. 
Still rose, with its temple, free ! 

And the P^san swell'd erelong, 
lo Paean ! from the fane ; 
lo Paean ! for the war-array. 
On the crown'd Parnassus riven that day ! 

— Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song! 
With thy bounding streams again. 



THE BOWL OF LIBERTY. 229 



II.— THE BOWL OP LIBERTY/ 

Before the fiery sun, 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, 
In the free air, and on the war-field won. 
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood. 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies, 
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood 
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They call'd the glorious dead. 
In the strong fiiith which brings the viewless nigh, 
And pour'd rich odours o'er their battle-bed, 
And bade them to their rite of Liberty. 

They call'd them from the shades. 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades. 
And music floats o'er meads of asphodel. 

Then fast the bright-red wine^ 
Flow'd to their manes who taught the world to die, 
And made the land's green turf a living shrine. 
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 

' This and the following' piece appeared originally in the New 
Monthly Magazine, 

Tor an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in 
commemoration of the battle of Plat8Ba, see Potter's Antiqui- 
ties of Greece, vol. i. p. 389. 

Vol. IIL 20 



230 GREEK SONGS. 

So the rejoicing earth 
Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 
And richer flov^rers to deck the tomb drew birth 
From the free soil thus hallow'd to the brave. 

We have the battle-fields, 
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 
— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty? 



III.— THE VOICE OF SCIO. 

A VOICE from Scio's isle — 
A voice of song, a voice of old 
Swept far as cloud or billow roU'd, 

And earth was hush'd the while — 

The souls of nations woke ! 
Where lies the land whose hills among, 
That Voice of Victory hath not rung. 

As if a trumpet spoke? 

To sky, and sea, and shore, 
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain, 
Swept from the rivers to the main, 

A glorious tale it bore. 

Still, by our sun-bright deep. 
With all the fame that fiery lay 
Threw round them, in its rushing way. 

The sons of battle sleep. 



THE VOICE OF SCIO. 231 

And kings their turf have crown'd! 
And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 
Brought garlands there : so rest the brave. 

Who thus their bard have found ! 

A voice from Scio's isle, 
A voice as deep hath risen again 
As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 

Where'er our sun may smile ! 

Let not its tones expire ! 
Such power to waken earth and heaven 
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 

To mortal song or lyre ! 

Kjiow ye not whence it comes? 
From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes. 
From kindred blood on yon red plains, 

From desolated homes! 

'Tis with us through the night! 
'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky — 
Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high. 

O'er the mid- waves of fight! 



^ 



232 GREEK SONGS, 



IV.— THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.' 

" The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into bat- 
tle," says Thucydides, " because they wished not to excite the 
rage of their warriors. Their charg-ing-step was made to the 
' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a 
Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a 
rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 
spur." Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks. 

'TwAS morn upon the Grecian hills, 
Where peasants dress'd the vines; 

Sunlight was on Cithaeron's rills, 
Arcadia's rocks and pines. 

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 

Eurotas wander'd by, 
When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 

Of solemn harmony. 

Was it the hunters' choral strain 

To the woodland-goddess pour'd? 
Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 

Strike the full sounding chord? 

But helms were glancing on the stream. 

Spears ranged in close array, 
And shields flung back a glorious beam 

To the morn of a fearful day ! 



^ Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine. 



THE URN AND SWORD. 233 

And the mountain-echoes of the land 
Swell'd through the deep-blue sky ; 

While to soft strains moved forth a band 
Of men that moved to die. 

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, 

Nor bade the horn peal out, 
And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd, 

Rung with no battle shout ! 

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire 

Their souls with an impulse high ; 
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 

For the sons of libertv ! 

And still sweet flutes, their path around 

Sent forth iEolian breath; 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field. 

Thence never to return. 
Save bearing back the Spartan shield. 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



v.— THE URN AND SWORD. 

They sought for treasures in the tomb. 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.^ 



* See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234. 
20* 



jB4 greek songs. 

They scattered far the greensward heap, 
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd; 
— What found they in the home of sleep? — 
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

And these are treasures! — undismayed. 
Still for the suffering land we trust. 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid. 
With freedom's sword, and valour's dust. 



VI.— THE MYRTLE BOUGH. 

Still green, along our sunny shore. 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were offer'd on the graves — 
The graves, wherein our mighty men 
Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 

Was sacred through the land; 
And fearless was the banquet's mirth. 

And free the minstrel's hand ; 
And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd. 
Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round. 



ELYSIUM. 235 

Still green ! as when on holy ground 

The tyrant's blood was pour'd: 
Forget ye not what garlands bound 

The young deliverer's sword ! 
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, 
We still have sword and myrtle bough ! 



ELYSIUM. 



" In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and 
persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth ; 
the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is 
to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the 
infernal Regions." Chateaubriand, Genie du Christianisme. 



Fair wert thou in the dreams 
Of eider time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night. 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decav. 



236 ELYSIUM. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep ^olian sound went by, 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades. 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh. 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, 
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony 
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain. 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewild'ring music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread. 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel? 
Call'd from the dim procession of the dead. 
Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might 
dwell. 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale? 

They of the sword, whose praise. 
With the bright w'me at nations' feasts, went round ! 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the wands had sent their mighty sound. 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes 'midst the mountains! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 



ELYSIUM. 237 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had 

sought 
The soul's far birthplace — but without a guide! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams. 
Born *midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls! — the shades o'erhang their way. 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
'Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place 
In some sweet home; — thou hadst no wreaths for 

these. 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 



238 ELYSIUM. 

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As embers in a burial-urn compressed ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!" 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier. 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay. 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile! — Elvsium ! what wert thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow 1 

Thou badst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand. 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown 

Which, in its clear eye, shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! but that light was past — 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast? 

Not where thy soft winds play'd. 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep. 

And bade man cease to weep ! 



ELYSIUM. 239 



Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love.* 



^ The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs. He- 
mans some years after its first publication, and, though done so 
perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally 
written, the two following stanzas concluded the piece — 

For the most loved are they 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls! the shades o'erhang their way — 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice. 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their stef)s; fill silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then. 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread. 

The long-remember'd dead ! 
But not with Ihee might aught save glory dwell — 
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel ! 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS; 

AN ANCIENT STATUE. 



" Debout, couronne de fleurs, les bras eleves et poses sur sa 
tete, et le dos appuye centre un pin, ce genie semble exprimer 
par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tom- 

beaux ofFrent souvent des figures semblables." Visconti, 

Description des Antiques du Musee Royal. 



Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight fells 
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air. 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls — 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring flowers like 

these : 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed. 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom 
Which of the grove seems breathing — not the tomb. 

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee ! 
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 
And laid thy head against the forest tree, 

(240) 



THE FUNERAL GENIUS. 241 

As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 
On the wood-violets luU'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death! — yet who shall say his touch 

Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? 

Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 

Of tender beauty as thy features wear? 

Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 

So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee? — Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? 
— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed : 
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe. 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge? 

Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part. 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart ! 

But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe. 
Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 
That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow. 
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold. 
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting? 
Vol. III.— ^31 



242 THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array'd. 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 

O'er its dim precincts? — do we not intrust 

But for a time, its chambers with our dead, 

And strew immortal seed upon the dust? 

— Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, 

When living light hath touch'd the brow of death? 



THE TOMBS OF PLATJEA. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

And there they sleep! — the men who stood 
In arms before th' exulting sun. 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood. 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won. 

They sleep! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and gone; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled — 
Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on. 

They sleep, and seems not all around 
As hallow'd unto glory's tomb ? 
Silence is on the battle-ground. 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 



THE TOMBS OF PLATJEA. 243 

And stars are watching on their height, 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud, 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. 

And thou, pale night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves. 
Nor look they down on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves: 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 
In shadowy quiet, 'midst its vines; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
'Midst the grey olives, or the mountain pines: 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste. 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood. 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the solitude. 

And be it thus! — what slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains? 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead. 
When their bright Land sits weeping o'er her chains: 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 
And where the Spartan sw^ord flash'd high, 
And where the paean strains were sung. 
From year to year swell'd on by liberty ! 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard. 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 
Save of the leader's charging word. 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven . 



244 THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree!^ 
No harvests o'er your war-field wave. 
Till rushing winds proclaim — the land is free! 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

FROM A PAINTING BY VS^ILLIAMS. 

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, 
Where now grey stones and moss-grown columns lie ; 
There have been words, which earth grew pale to 

hear, 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh : 
There have been voices, through the sunny sky. 
And the pine- woods, their choral hymn-notes sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody. 
With incense clouds around the temple blending. 
And throngs with laurel-boughs, before the altar 

bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the day-god's now-forsaken throne ; 
Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles. 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 
That foes were on their way ! — the deep-wind's moan 
Hath chili'd th' invaders heart with secret fear 
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, 

* A single tree appears in Mr. Williams's impressive picture. 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 245 

Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career, 
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the 
spear. 

The shrine hath sunk! — but thou unchanged art 

there ! 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams 
Unchanged, and rushing through the radiant air, 
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, 
And all thy founts of song ! their bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet; and each dim haze. 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days! 

Away, vain phantasies! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest. 
Though in deep stillness now, the ruin's flower 
Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast ? 
— Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy 

crest ! 
Let the great rocks their solitude regain ! 
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 
With their full chords: — but silent be the strain! 
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's 

reign ! * 

^This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces, 
first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. 

21* 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 



When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe 
While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor's 
hlow ? 

When are proud sceptres riven. 
High hopes o'erthrov^^n ? — It is when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven! 

Fear ve the festal hour! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done. 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crown'd: 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody. 

And censers waved around; 
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd! 
When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging 

sword. 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound!* 

^ The sword of Harmodius. 

(246) 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 247 

Through Rome a triumph passM. 
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendour shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led ; 
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last.* 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way, 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead! — the father's broken flower' 

A sound of lyre and song. 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome. 
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out! — but strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made,^ 

^ Paulus ^milius, one of whose sons died a few days before, 
and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Mace- 
don, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains. 

"See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, 
of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the 
night before Antony's death. 



248 THE FESTAL HOUR. 

Shook Alexandria through her streets that night. 
And pass'd — and with another sunset's light. 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright 'midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Cam panian city,^ with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers. 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky. 
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry. 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space, 
As with the wings of death! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place? 

Such things have been of yore. 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow. 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving. 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 



^Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants 
were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which 
covered the city descended. 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 240 

Turn we to other climes! — 
Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread, 
'Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead:* 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp.; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time; 

But, ere the giant-fane 
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven, 

O'er that old burial-plain 
Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger ! — Blood was streaming 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, 
And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain — 

For they return'd no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part; 

And, on the rushy floor. 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows! 
Tame down the swelling heart! — the bridal rose, 

And the rich myrtle's flower 

* Stonehen^e, said by some traditions to have been erected to 
the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others 
mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British 
chiefs here alluded to. 



250 THE FESTAL HOUR. 

Have veil'd the sword ! — Red wines have sparkled fast 
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes passed, 
With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth: 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death! 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 



" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold 
of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this 
prince repeatedly declared he 'would trample the audacious rus- 
tics under his feet;' and that he had procured a large stock of 
cordage, for the purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them 
to death. 

" The 15th October, 1315, dawned. The sun darted its first 
rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host ; and this 
being the first army ever known to have attempted the frontiers 
of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with various emo- 
tions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into the narrow pass, 
and soon filled the whole space between the mountain (Mount 
Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the eminence (above 
Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down heaps of rocks 
and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on the 
mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed 
down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered 
column. With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of 
the enemy, and dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. 
The narrowness of the defile admitted of no evolutions, and a 
slight frost having injured the road, the horses were impeded in 
all their motions ; many leaped into the lake ; all were startled ; 
and at last the whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back 
on the infantry ; and these last, as the nature of the country did 
not allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives, 
and many of them trampled to death. A general rout ensued, 
and Duke Leopold was, v.-ith much difficulty, rescued by a pea- 
sant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the 
times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dis- 
mayed." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 

(251) 



252 SONG OF THE 

The wine-month^ shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes chistering hung, 
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's cHme, 
Than the vintage-music, rung. 

A sound, through vauked cave, 
A sound, through echoing glen. 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown. 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 

And through the forest-glooms 
Flash'd helmets to the day. 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes. 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

In Hash's^ wilds there was gleaming steel. 

As the host of the Austrian pass'd; 
And the Schreckhorn's ^ rocks, with a savage peal, 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up 'midst the Righi* snows 
The stormy march was heard. 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

^ Wine-month, the German name for October. 
' Hash, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 
' Schreckhorn, the^eaA; of terror, a mountain in the canton of 
Berne. 
* Righi, a mountain in the canton of Schwytz, 



BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 253 

But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazon'd streamers, and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains. 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they enter'd the rock-defile. 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rung the while. 
But on the misty height, 
Where the mountain-people stood. 
There was stillness, as of night. 

When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness, as of deep dead night, 

And a pause — but not of fear. 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood. 
But they look'd not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was fill'd with their serried power. 

All helm'd and mail-array'd. 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 

In the rustling forest-shade. 
Vol, III, 22 



254 SONG OF THE 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down. 

Their startled foes among, 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
— Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong ! 
They came like lauwine^ hurl'd 
From Alp to Alp in play, 
When the echoes shout through the snowy world. 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rush'd from high, 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry; 

Like hunters of the deer. 
They storm 'd the narrow dell, 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear. 
Was the arm of William Tell.^ 

There was tumult in the crowded strait. 

And a cry of wild dismay. 
And many a warrior met his fate 

From a peasant's hand that day ! 



^ Lauwine, the Swiss name for the avalanche. 
' William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst the 
confederates at Morgarten. 



BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 255 

And the empire's banner then 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men of the Forest-sea/ 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield. 
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 

The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch- wood leaves. 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd 

When the Austrian turn'd to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelm'd was seen. 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills. 

Went back from the battle-toil. 
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green hills. 
All burden'd with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 
On the soaring Alps that night. 
When children sprung to greet their sires 
From the wild Morgarten fight. 

^ Forest-setty the lake of the four cantons is also so called. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 



Dram. Pers. 

Sebastian. Zamor, a young Arab. 

Gonzalez, his friend. Sylveira. 



(257) 

22* 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Scene L 

The sea-shore near Lisbon, 

Sebastian — Gonzalez — Zamor, 

Seh, With what young life and fragrance in its 
breath 
My native air salutes me ! from the groves 
Of citron, and the mountains of the vine. 
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on 
In power and freedom o'er its golden sands. 
Fair stream, my Tajo ! youth, with all its glow 
And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame 
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves 
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land 
My own, my fathers' land, of sunny skies 
And orange bowers! — Oh! is it not a dream 
That thus I tread thy soil? Or do I wake 
From a dark dream but now ! Gonzalez, say. 
Doth it not bring the flush of early life 
Back on th' awakening spirit, thus to gaze 
On the far-sweeping river, and the shades 
Which in their undulating motion speak 
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born. 
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands 
Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs 



260 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

Have changed our mien ; but this, our blessed land. 
Hath gained but richer beauty since we bade 
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus? 
Thy brow is clouded. — 

Gon. To mine eye the scene 

Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, 
A hue of desolation, and the calm. 
The solitude and silence which pervade 
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less 
To peace than sadness ! We have proudly stood 
Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave. 
When it hath look'd not thus. 

Seh. Ay, now thy soul 

Is in the past ! Oh no, it look'd not thus 
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails. 
And the winds blew for Afric ! How that hour, 
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst 
Again upon my vision ! I behold 
The stately barks, the arming, the array. 
The crests, the banners of my chivalry 
Swayed by the sea-breeze till their motion showed 
Like joyous life ! How the proud billows foam'd ! 
And the oars flashed, like lightnings of the deep. 
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, 
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide 
The valiant unto fame ! Ay, the blue heaven 
Seemed for that noble scene a canopy 
Scarce too majestic, while it rung afar 
To peals of warlike sound ! My gallant bands f 
Where are you now ? 

Gon, Bid the wild desert tell 

Where sleep its dead ! To mightier hosts than them 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 261 

Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast 
Is room for nations yet ! 

Seft, It cannot be 

That all have perish'd ! Many a noble man. 
Made captive on that v^rar-fi^ld, may have burst 
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour. 
Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught 
To the parch'd lip of fever, with a thought 
So darkly sad! 

Gon^ Oh never, never cast 

That deep remembrance from you ! When once more 
Your place is 'midst earth's rulers, let it dwell 
Around you, as the shadow of your throne. 
Wherein the land may rest. My king, this hour 
(Solemn as that which to the voyager's eye. 
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold 
A new and boundless world) may haply be 
The last in which the courage and the power 
Of truth's high voice may reach yoo. Who may 

stand 
As man to man, as friend to friend, before 
The ancestral throne of monarchs ? Or, perchance, 
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance. 
Henceforth may wait us herei But howsoe'er 
This be, the lessons now from sufferings past 
Befit all time, all change. Oh ! by the blood. 
The free, the* generous blood of Portugal, 
Shed on the sands of Afric, — by the names 
Which, with their centuries of high renown. 
There died, extinct for ever, — let not those 
Who stood in hope and glory at our side 
Hero, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass'd 



262 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

To fall, and leave no trophy, — let them not 
Be soon, be e'er forgotten ! for their fate 
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness, 
Whence power might well learn wisdom! 

Seb. Think'st thou, then 

That years of sufferance and captivity. 
Such as have bow'd down eagle hearts ere now. 
And made high energies their spoil, have pass'd 
So lightly o'er my spirit ? It is not thus ! 
The things thou would'st recall are not of those 
To be forgotten ! But my heart hath still 
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, 
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze 
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez ! 
Thou art one to make thy fearless heart a shield 
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour 
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms 
Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver'd. Thou art one 
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude 
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile 
The long slow march beneath the burning noon 
With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts. 
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast 
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights 
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound 
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing 
Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these 
Thou hast no sympathies ! — And thou, my Zamor, 
Art wrapt in thought ! I welcome thee to this. 
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not 
A goodly heritage? 

Zam, The land is fair : 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 263 

But he, the archer of the wilderness, 
Beholdeth not the palms heneath whose shade 
His tents are scatter'd, and his camels rest; 
And therefore is he sad ! 

Seb. Thou must not pine 

With that sick yearning of the impatient heart, 
Which makes the exile's life one fever'd dream 
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away. 
And faces wearing the familiar hues 
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known 
Too much of this, and would not see another 
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee, 
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark 
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset's glow, 
Lies within signal reach. If it be thus. 
Then fare thee well — farewell, thou brave, and true, 
And generous friend ! How often is our path 
Cross'd by some being whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course 
Leads down another current, never more 
To blend with ours ! Yet far within our souls. 
Amidst the rushing of the busy world. 
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet 
Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor, 
Shalt thou be long remembered ! 

Zam» By the fame 

Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes 
Tell round the desert's watch-hre, at the hour 
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, 
I will not leave thee ! 'T was in such an hour 
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay 
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within 



264 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then, 
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole 
Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart translix'd 
The monarch of the solitudes? I woke. 
And saw thy javelin crimson'd with his blood. 
Thou, my deliverer ! and my heart e'en then 
Call'd thee its brother. 

Seh. For that gift of Hfe 

With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self. 
Thou hast repaid me well. 

Zam. Then bid me not 

Forsake thee ! Though my father's tents may rise 
At times upon my spirit, yet my home 
Shall be amidst thy mountains. Prince, and thou 
Shalt be my chief, until I see thee robed 
With all thy power. When thou canst need no more 
Thine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm. 
From the green regions of the setting sun 
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek 
His orient wilds again. 

Seh. Be near me still. 

And ever, O my warrior ! I shall stand 
Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king. 
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp 
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place 
Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease 
To need true hearts, bold hands? Not in the field 
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet 
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part. 

Gon. Be all thy friends then faithful, for e'en yet 
They may be fiercely tried. 

iSe&, I dpubt them not. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 265 

Even now my heart beats high to meet their welcome. 
Let us away ! 

Gon. Yet hear once more, my liege : 

The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine 
Returning, finds not e'en his peasant home 
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face, 
Which made the sun-light of his lowly board, 
Is touch'd by sickness; some familiar voice 
Greets him no more : and shall not fate and time 
Have done their work, since last we parted hence, 
Upon an empire? Ay, within those years, 
Hearts from their ancient worship have fall'n off 
And bow'd before new stars : high names have sunk 
From their supremacy of place, and others 
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds 
At which thrones tremble. Oh ! be slow to trust 
E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to seem 
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths 
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine 
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by. 
Leaving earth's face unchanged. 

Seb. Whence didst thou learn 

The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow 
O'er a most noble nature ? 

Gon. Life hath been 

My stern and only teacher. I have known 
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most 
In human hearts. Oh ! yet awhile tame down 
That royal spirit, till the hour be come 
When it may burst its bondage ! On thy brow 
The suns of burning climes have set their seal, 
And toil, and years, and perils, have not pass'd 

Vol. m.™^ 23 



266 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

O'er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye, 
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change 
The mask beneath whose shelter thou may'st read 
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own. 

Seb. Am I thus changed 

From all I was? And yet it needs must be, 
Since e'en my soul hath caught another hue 
From its long sufferings. Did I not array 
The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry. 
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour 
Destruction on the Moslem? I return. 
And as a fearless and a trusted friend, 
Bring, from the realms of my captivity. 
An Arab of the desert! — But the sun 
Hath sunk below th' Atlantic. Let us hence — 
Gonzalez, fear me not. [Exeunt, 



Scene II. 
A Street in Lisbon illuminated. 

Many Citizens. 

1st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien 
With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps 
Shining from all her marble palaces, 
Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest lattice 
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling waves 
Fling back the light! 

2d Cit, Ay, 'tis a gallant show; 

And one which serves, like others, to conceal 
Things which must not be told. 

Sd Cit, What wouldst thou say? 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 2G7 

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous times 
Hke these, 
Be said with safety. Hast thou look'd within 
Those stately palaces? Were they but peopled 
With the hi^h race of warlike nobles, once 
Their princely lords, think'st thou, good friend, that 

now 
They would be glittering with this hollow pomp. 
To greet a conqueror's entrance? 

2d Cit, Thou say'st well. 

None but a land forsaken of its chiefs 
Had been so lost and won. 

4:th Cit. The lot is cast; 

We have but to yield. Hush ! for some strangers 

come : 
Now, friends, beware. 

l5^ Cit. Did the king pass this way 

At morning, with his train ? 

2d Cit. A.J : saw you not 

The long and rich procession ? 

[Sebast. enters with Gonzal. and Zamor. 

Seh. to Gon. This should be 

The night of some high festival. E'en thus 
My royal city to the skies sent up 
From her illumined fanes and towers a voice 
Of gladness, welcoming our first return 
From Afric's coast. Speak thou, Gonzalez, ask 
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart 
Deep feelings rush, so mingled and so fast, 
My voice perchance might tremble. 

Gon. Citizen, 

What festal night is this, that all your streets 
Are throng'd and glittering thus? 



268 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

1st Cit, Hast thou not heard 

Of the king's entry, in triumphal pomp. 
This very morn? 

Gon. The king ! triumphal pomp ! 

Thy words are dark. 

Seb. Speak yet again : mine ears 

Ring with strange sounds. Again ! 

Is^ Cit I said, the king, 

Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, 
This morning enter'd with a conqueror's train 
Our city's royal palace : and for this 
We hold our festival. 

Seb. (in a loio voice.) Thou said'st— the king ! 
His name? — 1 heard it not. 

1st Cit. Philip of Spain. 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! We slumber, till aroused 
By th' earthquake's bursting shock. Hath there not 

fall'n 
A sudden darkness? All things seem to float 
Obscurely round me. Now 'tis past. The streets 
Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench those 

lamps ; 
They glare upon me till my very brain 
Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare ye thus 
Light up your shrines for him ? 

Gon. Away, away ! 

This is no time, no scene — 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! 

How name ye this fair land? Why — is it not 
The free, the chivalrous Portugal ? the land 
By the proud ransom of heroic blood 
Won from the Moor of old? Did that red stream 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 269 

Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current 
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, 
Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps, 
Might be a kingdom's barrier ? 

2d Cit. That high blood 

Which should have been our strength, profusely shed 
By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains 
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt 
Hath brought this ruin down. 

Seb. Must this be heard 

And borne, and unchastised. Man, darest thou stand 
Before me face to face, and thus arraign 
Thy sovereign ? 

Zam. {aside to Seb.) Shall I lift the sword, my 
Prince, 
Against thy foes? 

Gon. Be still — or all is lost. 

2d Cit. I dare speak that which all men think and 
know. 
'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life. 
And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds. 
3d Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new monarch 
rule 
The weary land in peace ! But who art thou ? 
Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that these 

things. 
Known to all nations, should be new to thee ? 
Seb. (wildly.) I come from regions where the 
cities lie 
In ruins, not in chains. 

\_Exit with GoNZAL. and Zamor. 
2d Cit. He wears the mien 

23* 



270 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

Of one that hath commanded ; yet his looks 
And words were strangely wild. 

1^^ Cit. Mark'd you his fierce 

And haughty gesture, and the flash that hroke 
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's name 
Became our theme ? 

2d Cit. Trust me, there's more in this 

Than may be lightly said. These are no times 
To breathe men's thoughts i' th' open face of heaven 
And ear of multitudes. They that would speak 
Of monarchs and their deeds, should keep within 
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence, and then 
We'll commune of this stranger. 

The Portico of a Palace, 
Sebastian. — Gonzalez. — Zamor. - 

Seb. Withstand me not ! I tell thee that my soul, 
With all its passionate energies, is roused 
Unto that fearful strength which must have way 
E'en like the elements, in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation. 

Gon. But they wait 

That hour in silence. O ! be calm awhile. 
Thine is not come. My king — 

Seh. I am no king, 

While in the very palace of my sires, 
Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light. 
Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke 
To the high sound of earth's immortal names, 
Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king 
Until I cast him thence. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 271 

Zam. Shall not thy voice 

Be as a trumpet to the awakining land? 
Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts forth, 
When the brave hear their chief? 

Gon. Peace, Zamor, peace ! 

Child of the desert, what hast thou to do 
With the calm hour of counsel? 

— Monarch, pause, 
A kingdom's destiny should not be the sport 
Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time 
When men, in very weariness of heart 
And careless desolation, tamed to yield 
By misery, strong as death, will lay their souls 
E'en at the conqueror's feet, as nature sinks. 
After long torture, into cold, and dull. 
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour 
Of fierce atonement? Ay, the slumberer wakes 
With gather'd strength and vengeance ; and the sense 
And the remembrance of his agonies 
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path 
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens 
Take off its interdict. Wait then the hour 
Of that high impulse. 

Seh, Is it not the sun 

Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds 
Doth make it morn ? The hour of which thou 

speak'st. 
Itself, with all its glory, is the work 
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid 
The sullen shades disperse. Away! — e'en now 
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true. 
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this 



272 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, friend 
Sylveira ? 

Gon. Ay, its glittering lamps too well 
Illume the stately vestibule to leave 
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever loved 
Such pageantries. 

Seh. His dwelling thus adorn'd 

On such a night ! Yet will I seek him here. 
He must be faithful, and to him the first 
My tale shall be reveal'd. k sudden chill 
Falls on my heart; and yet I will not wrong 
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been 
Link'd all too closely with mine inmost soul. 
And what have I to lose? 

Gon. Is their blood nought 

Who without hope will follow where thou lead'st. 
E'en unto death 1 

Seh. Was that a brave man's voice? 

Warrior, and friend ! how long then hast thou learn'd 
To hold thy blood thus dear? 

Gon. Of mine, mine own 
Think'st thou I spoke? When all is shed for thee, 
Thou'lt know me better. 

Seh. {entering the palace.) For a while farewell. 

[Exit, 

Gon. Thus princes lead men's hearts. Come, fol- 
low me. 
And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor, 
There will I bid thee welcome. [Exeunt. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 273 

Scene IV. 

Jl Hall within the Palace. 

Sebastiaiv. — Sylveira. 

Sylv. Whence art thou, stranger? — what wouldst 
thou with me l 
There is a fiery wildness in thy mien 
Starthng and almost fearful. 

Seb. From the stern, 

And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord 
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind 
Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children make 
The bow and spear their law, men bear not back 
That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask 
The secrets of their spirits 'midst the stir 
Of courts and cities. I have look'd on scenes 
Boundless, and strange, and terrible ; I have known 
Suflferings which are not in the shadowy scope 
Of wild imagination ; and these things 
Have stamp'd me with their impress. Man of peace. 
Thou look'st on one familiar with the extremes 
Of grandeur and of misery. 

Sylv. Stranger, speak 

Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time 
111 suits these mysteries. I must hence ; to-night 
I feast the lords of Spain. 

Seh. Is that a task 

For King Sebastian's friend ? 

Sylv. Sebastian's friend ! 

That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead 
Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid 



274 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

The living for their mirth. The grave sets bounds 
Unto all human friendship. 

Seb, On the plain 

Of Alcazar full many a stately flower, 
The pride and crown of some high house, w^as laid 
Low in the dust of Afric ; but of these 
Sebastian was not one. 

Sylv. I am not skill'd 

To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off 
The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine. 
What mean'st thou? — Speak! 

Seb. Sebastian died not there. 

I read no joy in that cold doubting mien. 
Is not thy name Sylveira? 

Sylv. Ay. 

Seb. Why, then, 

Be glad ! I tell thee that Sebastian lives ! 
Think thou on this — he lives! Should he return 
— For he may yet return — and find the friend 
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust 
As should be heaven's alone — mark'st thou my words ? 
— Should he then find this man, not girt and arm'd, 
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord. 
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith. 
Holding luxurious revels with his foes. 
How wouldst thou meet his glance? 

Sylv. As I do thine, 

Keen though it be, and proud. 

Seb. Why, thou dost quail 

Before it, even as if the burning eye 
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul 
Through all its depths. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 275 

Sylv. Away ! he died not there ! 

He should have died there, with the chivalry 
And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost 
By his impetuous rashness. 

Seb. This from thee ? 

Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze 
At its unmask'd and withering mien, should blight 
High souls at once? I wake. And this from theeT 
There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs 
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold 
And gems within earth's caverns, far below 
The everlasting hills: but who hath dared 
To dream that heaven's most awful attribute 
Invested his mortality, and to boast 
That through its inmost folds his glance could read 
One heart, one human heart ? Why, then, to love 
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms 
Of keenest temper and unerring aim, 
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware! 
Sebastian lives ! 

Sylv. If it be so, and thou 

Art of his followers still, then bid him seek 
Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre 
To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, 
For none is left him here. 

Seb. This is to live 

An age of wisdom in an hour ! The man 
Whose empire, as in scorn, o'erpass'd the bounds 
E'en of the infinite deep ; whose orient realms 
Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds 
Were brooding in their sunset mantle still, 
O'er his majestic regions of the west: 



276 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

This heir of fair dominion shall return, 
And, in the very city of his birth, 
Shall find no home ! Ay, I will tell him this, 
And he will answer that the tale is false, 
False as a traitor's hollow words of love ; 
And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls 
We commune now — a friend's, a monarch's gift, 
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, 
Should yield him still a welcome. 

Sylv. Fare thee well! 

I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words 
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance 
Laid by some treach'rous foe. But all in vain. 
I mock thy wiles to scorn. 

Seh. Ha ! ha ! The snake 

Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning. 
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go'st not thus. 
My heart is bursting, and I will be heard. 
What ! know'st thou not my spirit was born to hold 
Dominion over thine 1 Thou shalt not cast 
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou there, 
And tremble in the presence of thy lord! 

Sylv. This is all madness. 

Seh, Madness! no — I say 

'Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, 
And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness. 
Things which come o'er her, as a sense of pain 
O' th' sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet: 
Be still. Thou'rt used to smile and to obey; 
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast, 
As from the fullness of a heart o'ercharged 
With loyal love. Oh ! never, never more 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 277 

Let tears or smiles be trusted ! When thy king 
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise, 
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid. 
And he stood o'er thee with the look of one 
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes 
Were fill'd with tears like thine. No ! not like thine : 
His bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem'd 
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior's shield. 
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone 
Are brightly imaged forth. 

Sylv. What now avail 

These recollections? 

Seh. What ! I have seen thee shrink, 

As a murderer from the eye of light, before me : 
1 have earn'd (how dearly and how bitterly 
It matters not, but I have earn'd at last) 
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone ! 
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though arraign'd 
E'en of Sebastian's friendship. Make his scorn 
(For he will scorn thee, as a crouching slave 
By all high hearts is scorn'd) thy right, thy charter 
Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice. 
Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, 
Be as a sign, a token of thy claim 
To all such guerdons as are shovver'd on traitors, 
When noble men are crush'd. And fear thou not: — 
'Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm 
Hurls from his mountain throne : — th' ignoble shrub 
Grovelling beneath, may live. 

Sylv. It is thy part 

To tremble for thy life. 

Seh, They that have look'd 

Vol. III. 24 



278 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

Upon a heart like thine, should know too well 
The worth of life to tremble. Such things make 
Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom fate 
Would trample should be thus. It is enough — 
Thou may'st depart. 

Sylv, And thou, if thou dost prize 

Thy safety, speed thee hence. [Exit Sylveira. 

Seh. {alone.) And this is he 

Who was as mine own soul ; whose image rose, 
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought 
That on the sick man's weary couch he lay, 
Pining to share my battles ! 

CHORUS. 

Ye winds that sweep 

The conquer'd billows of the western deep, 

Or wander where the morn 

'Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born, 

Waft o'er bright isles, and glorious worlds, the fame 

Of the crown'd Spaniard's name : 

Till in each glowing zone 

Its might the nations own. 

And bow to him the vassal knee 

Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea. 

Seh. Away — away ! this is no place for him 
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now 
A word of desolation. {Exit 



ODE 

ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF POR- 
TUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA. 



Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was 
a Spanish poet, who lived in the reign of Charles V., 
and is still considered by the Castilians as one of their 
classic writers. He aimed at the introduction of a 
new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are dis- 
tinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, 
the frequent recurrence of expressions and images, 
derived apparently from a fervent study of the pro- 
phetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of national 
pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by 
the nature of the subjects to which some of these pro- 
ductions are devoted. This last characteristic is 
blended with a deep and enthusiastic feeling of reli- 
gion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty 
confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his coun- 
try. Spain is to him what Judea was to the bards 
who sang beneath the shadow of her palm-trees — the 
chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from 
all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, 
are peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Hea- 
ven upon the infidel. This triumphant conviction is 

(279) 



280 DEFEAT OF SEBASTIAN. 

powerfully expressed in his magnificent Ode on the 
Battle of Lepanto. 

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind 
of the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric 
compositions, will, it is feared, be very inadequately 
conveyed through the medium of the following trans- 
lation. 



"Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido,"&c. 

A VOICE of woe, a murmur of lament, 

A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire ; 

Let such record the da}^ the day of wail 

For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent ! 

She who hath seen her power, her fame expire. 

And mourns them in the dust, discrowned and pale .' 

And let the awful tale 
With grief and horror every realm o'ershade, 

From Afric's burning main 
To the far sea, in other hues array'd. 
And the red limits of the Orient's reign, 
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold 
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold. 

Alas! for those that in embattled power. 
And vain array of chariots and of horse, 
O desert Libya ! sought thy fatal coast ! 
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source 
Of might and glory, but in earthly force, 
Making the strength of multitudes their boast, 

A ilusb'd and crested host, 
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode 
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquer'd land 



DEFEAT OF SEBASTIAN. 281 

Given for the spoil ; nor raised their eyes to God : 
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand, 
Their sole support; — and heavily and prone 
They fell — the car, the steed, the rider all over- 
thrown ! 

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, 
Which to deep solitude and tears consign'd 
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth ; 
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow 
Announced the morn — it seem'd as nature pined, 
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam's birth ; 

While, startling the pale earth. 
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud 

With visitation dread, 
Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow*d, 
And raised barbarian nations o'er their head. 
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, 
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroU'd. 

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword 

Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand. 

Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown 

Of thy fair knighthood ; and the insatiate horde, 

Not with thy life content, O ruin'd land ! 

Sad Lusitania ! even thy bright renown 

Defaced and trampled down ; 
And scatter'd, rushing as a torrent flood, 
Thy pomp of arms and banners; — till the sands 
Became a lake of blood — thy noblest blood! — 
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter'd bands. 
Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed ; 
On thy devoted sons — amaze, and shame, and dread. 
24* 



282 DEFEAT OF SEBASTIAN. 

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight. 
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, 
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, 
Whose spoils were empires? — They that in their 

might 
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, 
And gave the spacious orient realms of day 

To desolation's sway, 
Making the cities of imperial name 

E'en as the desert place? 
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame? 
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race 
In one brief hour? Is this their valour's doom, 
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb ? 

Once were they in their splendour and their pride, 

As an imperial cedar on the brow 

Of the great Lebanon ! It rose, array 'd 

In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide 

Majestic branches, leaving far below 

All children of the forest. To its shade 

The waters tribute paid* , 

Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there 
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, 
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair 
Beneath; and nations by its canopy 
Were shadow'd o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er 
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair. 

But all elated, on its verdant stem, 
Confiding solely in its regal height, 
It soar'd presumptuous, as for empire born; 
And God for this removed its diadem. 



DEFEAT OP SEBASTIAN. 283 

And cast it from its regions of delight. 
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn, 

By the deep roots uptorn ! 
And lo ! encumb'ring the lone hills it lay. 
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state. 
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, 
Who in its ample shade had found so late 
Their bower of rest; and nature's savage race 
'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place. 

But thou, base Libya, thou whose arid sand 
Hath been a kingdom's death-bed, where one fate 
Closed her bright life, and her majestic fame, — 
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand 
Hath fall'n the victory, be not thou elate ! 
Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame, 

Unworthy of a name ! 
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance, 
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry. 

Pierced by his searching lance. 
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony. 
And thine affrighted streams to ocean's flood 
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood. 



THE 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazaiia 

Dei valor que en los siglos venideros 

Tendran los llijos de la I'uerte Espana, 

Hijcs de tal padres lierederos. 

Halio sola en Numancia todo quanto 

Debe con justo titulo cantarse. 

Y lo que puede dar materia al canto. 

Narnancia de Cervantes. 



{^65) 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The history of Spain records two instances of the severe 
and self-devoting heroism, which forms the subject of the fol- 
lowing dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the 
sieg-e of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho, King 
of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by 
Guzman, surnamed the Good.-^ The second is related of Alonzo 
Lopez de Toxeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disa- 
bled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the chil- 
dren of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of 
Trastamara.'^ 

Impressive as w^ere the circumstances which distinguished 
both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the 
following pages, that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger 
colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which 
she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions and high 
actions;" by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism 
and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved "faithful 
unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis personcB 
with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish 
chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of 
imaginary characters, and fixed upon " Valencia del Cid^^ as 
the scene to give them 

" A local habitation and a name." 



See Quintana's * Vidas de Espanoles celebres,' p. 53. 
' See the Preface to Southey's ' Chronicle of the Cid.' 

(287) 



DRx\MATIS PERSON.E. 



Alvar Gonzalez Gove?'nor of Valencia, 

AlPHONSO } -rr- o 

^ > His bons. 

Carlos ) 

Hernandez A Priest. 

Abdullah ^f Moorish Prhice, Chief of 

I the Army besieging Valencia, 

Garcias A Spanish Knight. 

Elmina Wife to Gonzalez. 

XiMENA Her Daughter. 

Theresa An Attendant. 

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, t^c. 



(288) 



THE 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Scene — Room in a Palace of Valencia. 
XiME\A singing to a lute. 

BALLAD. 

" Thou hast not been with a festal throng, 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the Hall of Song 
A mien so dark as thine ! 

— There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
— Thou hast brought from some disastrous field. 
That brow of wrath and gloom ! " 

" And is there blood upon my shield ? 

— Maiden ! it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle-field 
All darken'd to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain. 
Deep-dyed — but not with wine! 

"The ground is wet — but not with rain — 

We have been in war array, 

And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 

Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
Vol. hi. 25 (289) 



290 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

I have seen the strong man die 
And the striphng meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait. 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 

There 's many a fair young face. 
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er ; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more ! " 

" Alas ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
— Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest. 
And a white plume waving free ? 
With his proud quick-flashing eye. 
And his mien of knightly state ? 
Doth he come from where the swords flash'd high, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ? " 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and mark'd him well; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 
When the pride of manhood fell ! 
— But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's wild heart too wildly burns. 
Till it rests amidst the slain ! " 

"Thou canst not say that he li§s Ipw, 
The lovely and the brave; 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 291 

Oh ! none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave ! 

Dark, dark perchance the day 

Hath been with valour's fate, 
But he is on his homeward way. 

From the Roncesvalles' Strait." 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 
Though it bruise his greensward bed! 
— I have seen the stripling die. 
And the strong man meet his fate. 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by. 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait ! " 

Elmina enters. 

Elmina. Your songs are not like those of other days, 
Mine own Ximena ! — Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breath'd in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts? 

Ximena. My mother, this 

Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds; 
And these are not the halls, wherein my voice 
First pour'd those gladdening strains. 

Elmina. Alas ! thy heart 

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, 



292 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Thou wouldst have track'd ere now with step as light. 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Ximena. I would not but have shared 

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice. 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush 
All floating whispery sound, all bird-notes wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. — And 'tis well! 
Should not a hero's child be trained to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fix'd face of Death without dismay ? 

Elmina. Woe ! woe ! that aught so gentle and so 
young 
Should thus be call'd to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot, but thou, my child, shouldst move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers. 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n 
On dark and evil days ! 

Ximena. Aj, days that wake 

All to their tasks! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is summon'd unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. But we will take 
Our toils upon us nobly ! Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elmina. Hast thou some secret woe. 

That thus thou speak'st? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 293 

Ximena. What sorrow should be mine, 

Unknown to thee 1 

Elmina. Alas ! the baleful air 

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n, 
And wrought an early withering! — Thou hast cross'd 
The paths of IJeath, and minister'd to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades unto desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle 

child ! 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Ximena. Thou hast no cause 

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams; 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chill'd their fiery blood; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. — My Father comes — 
Oh ! speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 
25* 



294 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Gonzalez enters, 

Elmina. My noble lord! 

Welcome from this clay's toil ! — It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mail'd bosom from the corslet's weight. 
To rest at fall of eve? 

Gonzalez. There may be rest 

For the tired peasant when the vesper-bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve 
Watching his children's sport: but unto him 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain height. 
When Heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms 
— Who speaks of rest ? 

Ximena, My father, shall I fill 

The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sound thou lovest? 

Gonzalez. If there be strains of power 

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! we must hear 
No melting music now. 

Ximena. I know all high 

Heroic ditties of the elder time. 
Sung by the mountain -Christians, (I) in the holds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos^ teach the rocks 

» " Serranos," mountaineers. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 295 

And the pine forests deeply to resound 

The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear 

The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid? 

Gonzalez. Ay, speak of him, for in that name is 
power 
Such as might rescue kingdoms ! Speak of him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
r th' annals of their house on such a name. 
How should they take Dishonour by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest? 

Ehnina. Oh, why this? 

How my heart sinks ! 

Gonzalez, It must not fail thee yet, 

Daughter of heroes! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel, 
O'erawed, shrank back before them? — Ay, the earth 
Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay naught but dust — And earth doth call them 

martyrs ! 
Why, Heaven but claim'd their blood, their lives, 

and not 



296 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

The things which grow as tendrils round their hearts; 
No, not their children ! 

Elmina. Mean'st thou? — know'st thou aught? 
I cannot utter it — My sons! my sons! 
Is it of them 1 — Oh ! would'st thou speak of them ? 

Gonzalez. A mother's heart divineth but too well ! 

Elmina. Speak, I adjure thee ! — I can bear it all. 
• — Where are my children? 

Gonzalez. In the Moorish camp 

Whose lines have girt the city. 

Ximena. But they live? 

— All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elmina. Say, they live. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, still they live. 

Elmina. But captives! — They 

Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seem'd not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! — And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor! — Oh! how was this? 

Gonzalez. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls. 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elmina. 'Tis enough. 

— And when shall they be ransomed? 

Gonzalez. There is ask'd 

A ransom far too high. 

Elmina. What! have we wealth 

Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters? — Take thou all for them 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 297 

As 'twere a cumbrous robe! — Why, thou art one 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm, 
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou know'st not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart. 
Amidst its deep affections undisturb'd. 
May dwell in silence. 

Ximena. Father ! doubt thou not 

But we will bind ourselves to poverty. 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this, 
May win them back. — Distrust us not, my father! 
We can bear all things. 

Gonzalez. Can ye bear disgrace? 

Ximena. We were not horn for this. 

Gonzalez. No, thou sayest well ! 

Hold to that lofty faith. — My wife, my child! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns? — If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light! — But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be worn with shame, 
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elmina. Gonzalez, who must die? 

Gonzalez {hurriedly). They on whose lives a fear- 
ful price is set. 
But to be paid by treason! — Is't enough? 
Or must I yet seek words? 

Elmina. That look saith morel 

Thou canst not mean 

Gonzalez. I do ! why dwells there not 



298 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Power in a glance to speak it ? — They must die ! 
They — must their names be told — Our sons must die, 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Ximena. Oh ! look up ! 

My mother, sink not thus ! — Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elmina (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the 
breeze ! 

— No, no, not theirs! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? 
— And there is hope ! — I will not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For Nature is all-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. — Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gonzalez {solemnly^ Hope but in Him 

Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quiver'd in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold ! — Earth has no hope : 
It rests with him. 

Elmina. Thou canst not tell me this ! 

Thou father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gonzalez. If there have been 

Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 299 

Whispered by faith and honour, Hft thy hands, 
And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with 

strength 
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elmina. Then their doom is seal'd ! 

Thou wilt not save thy children? 

Gonzalez. Hast thou cause, 

Wife of my youth, to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word — traitor? They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine. 
Died not for this ! 

Elmina. Oh, cold and hard of heart ! 

Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight! — Men! men! too much is yours 
Of vantage ; ye, that with a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither! — So it is. 
Dominion must be won! — Nay, leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony. 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! — Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength? — I must be heard' 
Give me my sons ! 

Gonzalez. That they may live to hide 

With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of him 
They called th^ir father! — ^Was the oath whereby. 



300 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself, 

With an unswerving spirit to maintain 

This free and Christian city for my God 

And for my king, a writing traced on sand? 

That passionate tears should wash it from the earth. 

Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart 

Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 

The last light vessel's wake? — Then never more 

Let man's deep vows be trusted ! — though enforced 

By all th' appeals of high remembrances. 

And silent claims o' th' sepulchres, wherein 

His fathers with their stainless glory sleep. 

On their good swords ! Think'st thou / feel no pangs ? 

He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart 

Whose treasures he recalls. — Of this no more. 

'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross 

Still, from our ancient temples, must look up 

Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 

foot 
[ perish with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams^^ for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample ! 

Elmina. Scorn me not, 

In mine extreme of misery! — Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild; 
I know not what I ask! — And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall, 
That cross must fall at last ! There is no power, 
No hope within this city of the grave. 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 301 

Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark. 
Than the arrow of the desert. Ev'n the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth. 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease. 
When leagued with armed foes! — where now the aid. 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile ! 
— We are forsaken, in our utmost need, 
Bv heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gonzalez. If this be, 

(xAnd yet I will not deem it) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part and bound themselves to 

death. 
Through high conviction that their suffering land. 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone. 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elmina. Oh ! I have stood 

Beside thee through the beating storms of life. 
With the true heart of unrepining love, 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily 
In the parch'd vineyard, or the harvest-field. 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust. 
Owning that woe is mightier ! — Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband! — Let not her. 

Vol. III. 26 



302 SIEGE OF TALENCIA. 

The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gonzalez. Urge me not. 

Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found 
Worthy a brave man's love, oh ! urge me not 
To guilt, which, through the mist of blinding tears. 
In its own hues thou seest not! — Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elmina. All, all thy gentle race, 

The beautiful beings that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom them all ? 
— She, too, thy daughter — doth her smile unmark'd 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day? 
Shadows are gathering round her — seest thou not? 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The vsummer of our hearts, now doth but send. 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul^ 
Telling of early fate. 

Gonzalez. I see a change 

Far nobler on her brow ! — She is as one. 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute. 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. — Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laugh'd upon th' awakening heart, 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, w^hose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. — And let the torch 
W^hich but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar-flame, i' ih^ sanctuary's recess, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 303 

Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! — She hath put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Ev'n as a breastplate. — Ay, men look on her. 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks. 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fever'd lips; they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elmina. And seest thou not 

In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration 1 — They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought, 
Investing youth with grandeur! — From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. — Kneel with me, 
Ximena, kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied; 

— His children's lives! 

Ximena. Alas 1 this may not be. 

Mother ! — I cannot. \_Exit Ximena. 

Gonzalez. My heroic child ! 

— A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, O God ! 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death. 

Elmina. Is't thus in thine? 

Away! — what time is given thee to resolve 
On? — what I cannot utter! — Speak! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 



304 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Gonzalez, Until — ask not! 

The time is brief. 

Elmina. Thou said'st — I heard not right — 

Gonzalez. The time is brief. 

Elmina. What ! must we burst all ties 

Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments ? — Why, the sentenced wretch. 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Pour'd forth in slumber, is allow'd more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! — It is not thus ! 
We must have time to school us. 

Gonzalez. We have but 

To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elmina. Love! Love! — there are soft smiles and 
gentle words. 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look w^e trust in — and 't is mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled! — There is none 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. — It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 305 

Sliall bear his trophies well. — And this is love! 
This is man^s love ! — What marvel? — you ne'er made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath! — You ne'er kept watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weary eye; not yours the face 
Which early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and duly as Heaven's light. 
Was there to greet his wakening ! You ne'er smoothed 
His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest. 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lips to his 
When fever parch'd it ; hush'd his wayward cries. 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
No \ these a,re- woman's tasks! — In these her youth. 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart. 
Steal from her all unmark'd ! — My boys! my boys! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this? 
— Why were ye given me? 

Gonzalez. Is there strength in man 

Thus to endure? — That thou couldst read, thro' all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe doth rend ! 

Ehnina. Thy heart! thy heart! — Away! it feels 
not now ! 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall Heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening! — May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! — For me, my voice 
26* 



306 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 

With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place 

Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, 

Though kings lead armies o'er us; we shall sleep. 

Wrapt in earth's covering mantle ! you the while 

Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls. 

And hear the wild and melancholy winds 

Moan through their drooping banners, never more 

To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 

Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs. 

But all — all glorious — conquerors, chieftains, kings 

— To people that cold void ! And when the strength 

From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 

Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 

A fiery wakening ; if at last you pine 

For the glad voices, and the bounding steps. 

Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 

Of twining arms, and all the joyous light 

Of eyes that laugh 'd with youth, and made your 

board 
A place of sunshine; — When those days are come. 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long, and bid it quencb 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame ! immortal fame ! 
Fame to the sick of heart! — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
I' th' burning waste, for water ! 

Gonzalez. This from thee ! 

Now the last drop of bitterness is pour'd. 
Elmina — I forgive thee! [^Exit Elmina. 

Aid me, Heaven ! 
From whom alone is power ! — Oh ! thou hast set 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA, 307 

Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path, 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallowed! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials! — Doth not He 
Who made us, know the limits of our strength? 
My wife ! my sons ! — Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus! 

[Exit Gonzalez. 



Scene — 77ie Aisle of a Gothic Church, 
Hernandez, Garcias, and others, 

Hernandez. The rites are closed. Now, valiant 
men, depart. 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest ; 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But bless'd be they who toil 
For after-day ! — All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors, thro' the lingering hours 
Of the night-watch ! 

Garcias. Ay, father ! we have need 

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have look'd 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath. 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves look'd e'en as though their 
source 



308 SIEGE OP VALENCIA. 

Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 

Of noble hearts; while many a knightly crest 

RoU'd with them to the deep. And in the years 

Of my long exile and captivity, 

With the fierce Arab, I have watch'd beneath 

The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm. 

At midnight, in the desert; while the wind 

Swell'd with the lion's roar, and heavily 

The fearfulness and might of solitude 

Press'd on my weary heart. 

Hernandez (thoughtfully.) Thou little know'st 
Of what is solitude ! — I tell thee, those 
For whom — in earth's remotest nook — howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas — there beats one human heart. 
There breathes one being unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound, 
Heard o'er the din of life ! are not alone ! 
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 
For there is that on earth with which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul! — Call him alone. 
Who stands shut out from this ! — And let those 
Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with love 
Put on the insolence of happiness. 
Glorying in that proud lot ! — A lonely hour 
Is on its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Garcias. I have look'd on Death 

In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weigh'd down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries. 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 809 

Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth, 
Omens in heaven ! — The summer-skies put forth 
No clear bright stars above us, but at times. 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor steeds, the array 
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Hernandez. Aj^ last night, I too 

Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when, as they closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were flung 
Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth, 
And chariots seem'd to whirl, and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy; — then swift darkness rush'd 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. — I look'd— 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face ! — I look'd again 
— And from the brooding mass of clouds leap'd forth 
One meteor-sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes give 
Unto a rocking citadel! — I beheld. 
And yet my spirit sunk not. 

Garcias. Neither deem 

That mine hath blench'd. — But these are sights and 

sounds 
To awe the firmest. — Kjiow'st thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls? — Were 't but the deep 



310 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Barbaric horn or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses. 
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the air 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 
Sigh'd on its hollow breezes! — To my soul. 
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply. 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Hernandez {with solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid-waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows; 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim. 
Lightly might fame be won! — but there are things 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch. 
And courage temper'd with a holier fire ! 
Well may'st thou say, that these are fearful times ; 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! — There is strength. 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls. 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 
When red swords meet in lightning! — but our task 
Is more, and nobler! — We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land. 
And to defend an altar ! — If we fall, 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 311 

Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! — Think but on this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suffering, yet hoping all things — Fare ye well. 

Garcias. Father, farewell. [^Exeunt Garcias 

and his followers. 

Hernandez. These men have earthly ties 

And bondage on their natures ! — To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath call'd to be th' awakener of a land. 
Should have his soul's affections all absorb'd 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 
And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills 
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. 

Hark ! what quick step 
G)mes hurrying through the gloom at this dead hour ? 

Elmiiva enters. 

Elmina. Are not all hours as one to misery? — 
Why 
Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose ? 

Heimandez. I know thy griefs; 

But there are trials for the noble heart 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding: ear 



312 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 

On the green shore, hy him who perishes 

'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elmina. Think thou not 

I sought thee hut for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form. 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering ! 
Father 1 I ask thine aid. 

Hernandez. There is no aid 

For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elmina. There is no aid ! — Art thou a man of God 1 
Art thou a man of sorrow, (for the world 
Doth call thee such) and hast thou not been taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Hernandez. Is there power 

With me to save thy sons ? — Implore of Heaven ! 

Elmina. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by man? 
I tell thee, thou canst save them ! — Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor? — Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oracles 

Hernandez. And therefore ? — Speak ! 

The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath naught to ask, unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage. — Dost thou shrink? 

Elmina. Pity on me, father ! — I must speak 
That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, 
I had recoii'd in scorn ! — But this is past. 
Oh ! we grow humble in our agonies. 
And to the dust — their birth-place — bow the heads 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 313 

That wore the crown of glory ! — I am weak — 
My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Hernandez. These are no times for weakness. On 
our hills, 
The ancient cedars, in their gathered might, 
Are battling with the tempest ; and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
— But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break — Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain! — What wouldst thou with thy 
Lord? 

Elmina. Look not upon me thus ! — I have no power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul ! — What ! am I sunk to this ? 
I, whose blood sprang from heroes ! — How my sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line ! — My sons ! my sons ! 
— Now is all else forgotten ! — I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the sun, 
Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deem'd 
All sorrow light to mine ! — But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds ! — Oh ! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer. 
And my last lingering hope that thou shouldst win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 

Hernandez. By yielding up the city 1 

Elmina. Rather say, 

By meeting that which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one day the sooner ! — Is't not so ? 
Must we not yield at last ? — How long shall man 

Vol. m. 27 



314 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword? 

Hernandez, How long? — While he, 

Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, 
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy! — How long? 
And who art thou, that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, would'st set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stay'd, and flow no further? — But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assigned 
INo limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 

Elmina. Oh ! there are times. 

When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Hernandez, Who dies in vain 

Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars? — Feeble heart! 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood. 
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land. 
Whose sons through centuries of woe have sti.'iven 
And perish'd by her temples, sink awhile, 
Borne down in conflict! — But immortal seed 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 315 

Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills ; and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good tinne, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest! — Earth receives 
i\ot one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 

Elmina. Then it must be ! And ye will make 
those lives, 
Those young bright lives, an offering, to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Hernandez. The mantle of that day 

May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elmina. What led me here? 

Why did I turn to thee in my despair ? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man? 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! — What knows thy heart? 

Hernandez. Woman ! how dar'st thou taunt me 
with my woes? 
Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well ! — Why tak'st thou thought for them? 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health, 
Unpriz'd to melt away, i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself! — Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for this? — Shall they not live, 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten? Years of thought. 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness. 
That changed not, though to change be this world's 
law ? 



316 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Shall they not flush thy cheeks with shame, whose 

blood 
Marks, e'en like branding iron? — to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness? 
Doth not all hope end thus? — or e'en at best. 
Will they not leave thee? — far from thee seek room 
For th' overflowings of their fiery souls. 
On life's wide ocean? — Give the bounding steed 
Or the wing'd bark to youth, that his free course 
May be o'er hills and seas; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee? 

Elmina. Not so ! it is not so ! 

Thou dost but torture mel—My sons are kind. 
And brave, and gentle. 

Hernandez. Others too have worn 

The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet ; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elmijia. It may not be — 

Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 
Hernandez. My son lay stretch'd upon his battle- 
bier. 
And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elmina. What tale is this ? 

Hernandez. Read you no records in this mien, of 
things 
Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water? — Lofty birth. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 31; 

War, peril, power? — Affliction's hand is strong, 

If it erase the haughty characters 

They grave so deep ! — I have not always been 

That which I am. The name I bore is not 

Of those which perish! — I was once a chief, 

A warrior! — nor, as now, a lonely man! 

I was a father ! 

Elmina. Then thy heart can feel I 

Thou wilt have pity ! 

Hernandez. Should I pity thee ? 

Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood- 



Elmina. Their blood ! my children's blood ! — Thou 
speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting! — My fair boys! 

— Man ! hast thou been a father ? 
Hernandez. Let them die ! 

Let them die 7iow, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image ail undimm'd. 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetters on our souls ! — Thou think'st it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness. 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! W' ithin their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful. 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us I 

— Ay, fear them, fear the loved! — Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, as o'er a babe's, where tears 

27* 



318 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, / might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elmina {disdainfully.) But he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ? 

Hernandez. Glory ! — Peace, 

And listen! — By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I rear'd him to take joy 
V th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king — His quick blood 
E'en to his boyish cheek would mantle up. 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds — 
But this availeth not! — Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk, 
And banners were struck down — Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seem'd to stand between my soul and heaven, 
— Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Elmina. 'Tis ever thus! 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love! — He died? 

Hernandez, Not sol 

— Death ! Death ! — Why, earth should be a paradise. 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died. 
With his young fame about him for a shroud. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 319 

I had not learn'd the might of agony, 

To bring proud natures low! — No! he fell off — 

— Why do I tell thee this? — What right hast thou 
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house? 
Yet listen! — He forsook me! — He, that was 

As mine own soul, forsook me! — trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires! — Ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain, 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God! — Now, talk of death! 

Elmina. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Hernandez. There 's more to hear. 
I braced the corslet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking; 

Elmina. And ye met 

No more ? 

Hernandez. Be still! — We did! — we met once 
more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil. 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had look'd upon such things? — We met once more. 

— That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
Sear'd upon brain and bosom! — there had been 
Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 

8till held by Moorish lances. Night closed round, 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death I strove 
Long with a turban'd champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and prevail'd. 
He fell — my heart exulted — and T «tood 



320 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

In gloomy triumph o'er him — Nature gave 

No sign of horror, for 't was Heaven's decree ! 

He strove to speak — but I had done the work 

Of wrath too well — yet in his last deep moan 

A dreadful something of familiar sound 

Came o'er my shuddering sense — The moon look'd 

forth, 
And I beheld — speak not! — 'twas he — my son! 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance, 
And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon — I will not have thy look 
Fix'd on me thus! — away! 

Elmina. Thou hast seen this, 

Thou hast done this — and yet thou liv'st? 

Hernandez. I live ! 

And know'st thou wherefore? — On my soul there fell 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke. 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Seal'd by that blood wherewith my hands were dyed. 
And set apart, and fearfully mark'd out 
Unto a mighty task ! — To rouse the soul 
Of Spain, as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills. 
Gathering her sons to battle! — And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 321 

From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afr ic ; till the land 
Have fiU'd her cup of vengeance! — Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven ! 
— But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Elmina. I ask thee this no more, 

For I am hopeless now — But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes ! — Thy voice hath power 
Through the wdde city — here I cannot rest: — 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Hernandez. And wherefore? 

Elmina. Thou, 

That wert a father, and art now — alone! 
Canst thou ask * wherefore?' — Ask the wretch whose 

sands 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform. 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death. 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch'd lip 
Implores a cup of water? — Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer? — I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more! — And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish! — But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish? — Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt ? 



322 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Hernandez, There! — with the Moor! 

Let him fill up the measure of his guilt ! 
— 'Tis madness all! — How would^st thou pass the 

array 
Of armed foes? 

Elmina. Oh ! free doth sorrow pass. 

Free and unquestion'd, through a suffering world ! (2) 

Hernandez. This must not be. Enough of woe 
is laid 
E'en nowj upon thy lord's heroic soul. 
For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthen'd heart. — Away! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for strength 
Up to Heaven's gate. — Farewell! [Exit Hernandez. 

Elmina. Are all men thus ? 

— Why, wer't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn. 
Against the sufferer's pleadings? — But no, no! 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow? {After a pause.) 

There 's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy. 
And on whose knees they sported^ and whose hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's: 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid. 
When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE HEARD WITHOUT. 

Thou to thy rest art gone. 
High heart ! and what are we. 
While o'er our head the storm sweeps on, 
That we should mourn for thee? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 323 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that Hve, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain ! 

Be theirs to weep the dead 
As they sit beneath their vines. 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain. 
And pour our blood where thine hath flow'd. 
Too blest if not in vain ! 

We give thee holy rite. 
Slow knell, and chanted strain ! 
— For those that fall to-morrow night 
May be left no funeral train. 

Again, when trumpets wake. 
We must brace our armour on; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break — 
— Thou to thy rest art gone ! 

Happier in this than all 
That, now thy race is run, 
Upon thy name no stain may fall. 
Thy work hath well been done. 

Elmina. "Thy work hath well been done!"— 
so thou mayst rest ! 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now I may not pause. 

[Exit Elmina. 



324 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Scene — A Street in the City. 
Hernandez, Gonzalez. 

Hernandez. Would they not hear ? 

Gonzalez. They heard, as one that stands 

By the cold grave which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by 
Bid him be comforted ! — Their hearts have died 
Within them : — We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills, 
And peal through Heaven's great arch, but silently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark. 
Which lit us on our toils ! — Reproach me not ; 
My soul is darken'd with a heavy cloud — 
— Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Hernandez. Breathe not the word. 

Save in proud scorn ; — Each bitter day, o'erpass'd 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting heart ! 
A few brief hours, and those who turn'd away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice. 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be array 'd for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time. 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance. 
When they were weary. They had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins; or they had 
caught 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 325 

A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 

Gonzalez. Alas! the cause 

Lies deeper in their misery ! — I have seen, 
In my night's course through this beleaguer'd city. 
Things, whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains. — There were some, 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answer'd with a fierce and bitter laugh, 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit. — Others lay — 
Why should I tell thee, father ! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust ? — And yet for this. 
Fear not that I embrace my doom — Oh God! 
That 'twere my doom alone! — with less of fix'd 
And solemn fortitude. — Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, 
— But what are these? — Who hath not dearer lives 
Twined with his own? — I shall be lonely soon — 
Childless! — Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

[Exeunt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 

Vol. III. 28 



326 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Scene — A tent in the Moorish Camp. 
Abdullah, Alphoivso, Carlos. 

Abdullah. These are bold words: but hast thou 
look'd on death, 
Fair stripling! — On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much: — And fear'st thou not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alphonso. I have been 

Rear'd among fearless men, and 'midst the rocks 
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. 
How should I fear thee. Moor? 

Abdullah. So, thou hast seen 

Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and w^here wild flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves ! — But know'st thou aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so late? — Speak not of death, 
Till thou hast look'd on such. 

Alphonso. I was not born 

A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales ; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights! — I am of princely race, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 327 

And, if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel ! that long ere now, 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abdullah. Boy ! know'st thou there are sights 

A thousand times more fearful! — Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir.' — But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes. 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, boy? — 
To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth, 
Unto the death of shame ! — Hast thou seen this? — 

Alphonso {to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with 
us — fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires — this man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abdullah. There are means 

To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls, 
Sue to thy sire for life ; or wouldst thou die, 
With this, thy brother ? 

Alphonso. Moslem ! on the hills. 

Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dress'd the vines, 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home. 
Singing their ancient songs; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizona (3) clear'd its way through turban'd hosts 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 

^ " Tecbir," the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs. 



328 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Valencia from the Moor. (4) — I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him ! 

{A Moorish Soldier enters.) 

Soldier, Valencia's lord 

Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abdullah. Conduct them hither. 

[The Soldier goes out, and re-enters ivith Elmina* 
disguised, and an Attendant^ 
Carlos {springing forward to the Attendant.) Oh! 

Take me hence, Diego ! take me hence 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning, when I wake. Here dark-brow'd men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, 
And well I know thou lov'st me, my Diego ! 

Abdullah. Peace, boy! — What tidings. Christian, 
from thy lord? 
Is he grown humbler? — doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth? 

Alphonso {rushing forward impatiently.) Say not, 
he doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here ? 
If it be so — I could weep with burning tears 
For very shame ! — If this can be, return ! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword. 
And that beside him in the mountain-chase. 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts. 
My place shall be no more! — But no! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ! — Moor, believe it not ! 
He is a champion of the cross and Spain, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 329 

Sprung from the Cid ; and I too, I can die 
As a warrior's hidi-born child ! 

Elmina. Alas! alas! 

And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy ? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart. 
Ere yet the blight be come? 

Jilphonso. That voice doth sound 

Abdullah. Stranger, who art thou ? — this is mock- 
ery — speak ! 

Elmina (throiving off a mantle and helmet, and 
embracing her sons.) My boys ! whom I have 
rear'd through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart, 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years ! 

Carlos. Sweet mother ! now 

Thou shalt not leave us more. 

Abdullah. Enough of this ! 

Woman ! what seek'st thou here ? — How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts? 

Elmina. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 
but in breasts 
That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down ? — Thou little know'st 
Of nature's marvels! — Chief! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior men, 
— Ay, they that master death by field or flood. 
Would look on, ere they braved ! — I have no thought. 
No sense of fear! — Thou'rt mighty; but a soul 
28* 



330 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Wound up like mine, is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeUng, pour'd through all its depths, 
Than monarchs with their hosts! — Am I not come 
To die with these, my children? 

Abdullah. Doth thy faith 

Bid thee do this, fond Christian? — Hast thou not 
The means to save them? 

Elmina, I have prayers, and tears, 

x\nd agonies! — and he — my God — the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To how the crested head — hath made these things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, hy the storm call'd forth 
From the bruis'd reeds of earth ! — For thee, perchance. 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart, and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low. 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throws herself at his feet. 
Conqueror ! I can kneel ! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves. 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus debased ! 
Do this, but spare my sons ! 

Jllphonso (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldst 
not kneel 
Unto this infidel! — Rise, rise, my mother! 
This sight doth shame our house. 

Abdullah. Thou daring boy! 

They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty mien 
Unto another language. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 331 

Elmina, Peace, my son ; 

Have pity on my heart! — Oh, pardon. Chief — 
He is of noble blood! — Hear, hear me yet! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of Heaven 
May reach your soul ? — He that loves aught on earth. 
Dares far too much, if he be merciless ! 
Is it for those, whose frail mortality 
Must one day strive alone with God and death, 
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 
Of nature in her anguish? — Warrior! man! 
To you too, ay, and haply with your hosts, 
By thousands and ten thousands marshall'd round, 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not — Where shall your high 

heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath laid prostrate, bleeding at your feet. 
And you have pitied not ? 

Abdullah. These are vain words. 

Elmina. Have you no children? — Fear you not to 
bring 
The lightning on their heads? — In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, 
To greet your homeward step? — You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
— For is not woman's, in all climes, the same! — 
That you should scorn my prayer ! — Oh Heaven ! his 

eye 
Doth wear no mercy ! 

Abdullah. Then it mocks you not. 

I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 



332 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Of storms, upon them ! — Shall I now be stay'd ? 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing, 
In this, my course, to quench your children's lives, 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The wild young branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elmina. Are there such hearts 

Among thy works, oh God? 

Ahdullah. Kneel not to me. 

Kneel to your lord ; on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 

Elmina {rising indis^nantly.) Speak not of noble 
men ! — he bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alphonso {with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus — 
He could not fail ! 

Elmina. There is no mercy, none. 

On this cold earth! — To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love. We will go hence, 
My children, we are summon'd. Lay your heads. 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us, darkly round, 
Will yet have pity, and before his face 
We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once. 

Abdnllah. 'Tis thine own will. 

These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elmina. Thou wilt not spare ; 

And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew. 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 333 

Of that word — Father — once a man of love — 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abdullah. Hath the blast 

Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dead of night. 
When the land's watchers fear'd no hostile step, 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world. 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine ? 

Elmina. There 's meaning in thine eye, 

More than thy words. 

Abdullah (pointing to the city.) Look to yon 
towers and walls ! 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine. 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance ? 

Elmina. Thou hast said too well. 

But wkat of this? 

Abdullah. Then there are those, to whom 

The prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not. 
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest. 
Be won to welcome us? Your children's steps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's halls. 

Alphonso {indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moor ! 

Elmina. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, oh Heaven ! 

Abdullah, Now 'tis for thee. 

Thou Christian mother, on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — life or death — the price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alphonso. Mother, thou tremblest ! 

Abdullah. Hath thy heart resolved? 



334 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Elmina {covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush in stormy darkness, through my soul, 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abdullah. Come forth. We'll commune elewhere. 

Carlos {to his mother.) Wilt thou go? 
Oh, let me follow thee ! 

Elmina. Mine own fair child ! 

Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on mine 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul. 
And I have felt the twining of thine arms — 
— How shall I leave thee? 

Abdullah. Leave him, as 'twere but 

For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alphonso. Thou hast no look 

For me, my mother? 

Elmina. Oh, that I should live 

To say, I dare not look on thee ! — Farewell, 
My first-born, fare thee well. 

Alphonso. Yet, yet beware ! 

It were a grief more heavy on thy soul. 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep. 

Abdullah. Away! we trifle here. The night wanes fast. 
G)me forth. 

Elmina. One more embrace — My sons, farewell. 
[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and her Attendant 

Alphonso. Hear me yet once, my mother ! 

Art thou gone? 
But one word more. 

[He rushes out, followed by Carlos. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 335 

Scene — The Garden of a Palace in Valencia, 
XiMEivA, Theresa. 

Theresa. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes, 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, 
Than waits you in the city. 

Ximena. There are those 

In their last need, and on their bed of death. 
At which no hand doth minister but mine. 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Theresa. You have been wont to love the music 
made 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death? 

Ximena. To me the voice 

Of summer, whispering through young flowers and 

leaves. 
Now speaks too deep a language ; and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies. 
The breathing soul is sadness. — I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause 
That 1 should bend my footsteps to the scenes 
Where death is busy, taming warrior-hearts, 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood, 
And fettering the strong arm. — For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf. 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 



336 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Some token to my soul. But naught of this 
Unto my mother. — These are awful hours! 
And on their heavy steps, afflictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Theresa, Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 

Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, 
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet; 
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness, 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will amg 
The melody you love. 

Theresa sings. 

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 
So far from her own bright land? 

The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 
Were sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends. 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades. 
And none but strangers pass the tomb, 

Which the Palm of Judah shades, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 337 

The lowly cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 

Marks well that place of rest; 
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, 

A sword, a helm, a crest 't 

These are the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear ! 
— Some hlossom pluck'd, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier ! 

Scorn not her tomb — deny not her 

The honours of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre. 

Banner and plume might wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried. 

Her fearless heart above. 
And stood wdth brave men, side by side. 

In the strength and faith of love ! 

That strength prevail'd — that faith w^as bless'd ! 

True was the javelin thrown, 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast, 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so well 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the Rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air. 
And the Palm of Judah lift its head. 

Green and immortal there ! 
Vol. 111. 29 



338 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 

With its trophy mark the scene, 
TelUng the pilgrim of the waste, 

Where Love and Death have been. 

Ximena. Those notes were wont to make my heart 
beat quick. 
As at a voice of victory ; but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournful. Oh ! that ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sun-beam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner! — In that sound 
W^ere life to you, sweet brothers! — But for me — 
Come on — our tasks await us. They who know 
Their hours are number'd out, have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers. 
And whisper of soft winds. 

Elmina enters hurriedly, 

Elmina. This air will calm my spirit, ere yet I 
meet 
His eye, which must be met. Thou here, Ximena ! 
[She starts back, on seeing Ximena. 

Ximena. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying step 
And troubled glance I read 

Elmina (ivildly.) Thou read'st it not ! 

Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's? — Thou read'st it not! 
I say, thou canst not! — There's not one on earth 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 339 

Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves have 

made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open. 

Ximena. Mother ! what is this ? 

Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flush 'd, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Elmina. Rest! — who should rest? — not he 

That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than life! — No I if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him who calls 
Such things his own, take rest ! — Dark spirits keep 

watch, 
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their souls 
Made marks for human scorn ! — Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery? — Who shall tell us this? 
— Will he so bear it? 

Ximena. Mother ! let us kneel. 

And blend our hearts in prayer ! — What else is left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on them ? 
— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 
Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me ? 

Elmina. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstain'd to wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, 



340 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Reflects but clouds and liglitnings ! — Didst thou speak 
Of peace ? — 'Tis fled from earth ! — but there is joy ! 
Wild, troubled joy ! — i\.nd who shall know, my child ! 
It is no happiness? — Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close! — Joy, joy! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain air! — But hush! the trees. 
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this! 
They are full of voices, and will whisper things — 
— We'll speak of it no more. 

Ximena, Oh ! pitying Heaven I 

This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Elmina {starting.) Hark 1 a step ! 

'Tis — 'tis thy father's — come away — not now — 
He must not see us now ! 

Ximena. Why should this be? 

Gonzalez enters and detains Elmina. 

Gonzalez. Elmina, dost thou shun me? — Have we not 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows. 
Held on through life together? — And is this, 
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild? 

Elmina {coldly.) There needs not this. 

Why shouldst thou think I shunn'd thee? 

Gonzalez. Should the love 

That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening smiles 
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 341 

Elmina. Speak'st thou thus! 

— I have knelt before thee with that very plea, 
When it avail'd me not ! — But there are things 
Whose very breathings on the soul erase 

All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, 
And vain devotedness ! — Ay, they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth. 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gonzalez. This is but 

The wildness and the bitterness of grief, 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power. 
Which makes all conflicts vain. 

Hark ! was there not 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena ? 

Ximena. Oh, my father ! 

I know that horn too well. — 'T is but the wind, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gonzalez. Alas! this woe must be! 

I do but shake my spirit from its height, 
So startling it with hope ! — But the dread hour 
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little w^hile — and Heaven will ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart; 

— And thine — Elmina! 

Elmina. 'Tis — I am prepared. 

I have prepared for all. 

Gonzalez. Oh, well I knew 

29* 



342 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Thou wouldst not fail me! — Not in vain my soul. 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elmina {wildly.) Away! — thou know'st me not! 
Man dares too far : his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart ! 

Gonzalez. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee! — Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimm'd o'er every trial? — And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided! — Thine, 
r th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honour. By his side 

Elmina. May this be borne ! — How much of agony 
Hath the heart room for? — Speak to me in wrath — 
I can endure it ! — But no gentle words 1 
No words of love ! no praise ! — Thy sword might slay. 
And be more merciful ! 

Gonzalez. Wherefore art thou thus? 

Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elmina. No more of love ! 

— Have I not said there's that within my heart. 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fail 
Upon an unclosed wound ? 

Gonzalez. Nay, lift thine eyes 

That I may read their meaning ! 

Elmina. Never more 

With a free soul — What have I said ? — 'twas naught! 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech 
Of troubled dreams? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 343 

Gonzalez. I have seen thee in the hour 

Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilUng round thee ; in all change, 
Bright health and drooping sickness ; hope and fear ; 
Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back perturb'd 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elmina, Thy glance doth search 

A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gonzalez. Hast thou there 

Aught to conceal? 

Elmina. Who hath not ? 

Gonzalez. Till this hour 

Thou never hadst ! — Yet hear me ! — by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers — 

Elmina. This to me ! 

— Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds 
Of festal music, round a dying man ! 
Will his heart echo them ? — But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up with each lofty tone. 
The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gonzalez. Then, by her, 
Who there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonour — Speak ! 
Unfold this mystery ! — By thy sons 

Elmina. My sons ! 

And canst thou name them? 

Gonzalez. Proudly ! — Better far 



344 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

They died with all the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honour of their house upon them, 
Than that with manhood's high and passionate soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barr'd from the lists of crested chivalry. 
And pining in the silence of a woe, 
Which from the heart shuts daylight — o'er the shame 
Of those who gave them birth ! — but thou couldst ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

Elmina {wildly.) 'Twas but for them! 

'Twas for them only! — Who shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime? — And he who made us, knows 
There are dark moments of all hearts and lives. 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gonzalez. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust, as o'er our nature threw 
A glory, scarce allow'd ; — what hast thou done? 
Ximena, go thou hence ! 

Elmina. No, no ! my child ! 

There 's pity in thy look ! — All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! — Oh ! leave me not ! 

Gonzalez. That I should live to see thee thus 
abased ! 
— Yet speak ! — What hast thou done ? 

Elmina. Look to the gate ! 

Thou 'rt worn with toil — But take no rest to-night! 
The western gate ! — Its watchers have been won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold ! 
They will admit the Moor ! 

Gonzalez. They have been won ! 

Brave men and tried so long ! — Whose work was this 1 

Elmina. Think 'st thou all hearts like thine?—' 
Can mothers stand 
To see their cliildren perish ? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 345 

Gonzalez. Then the guilt 

Was thine ! 

Elmina. — Shall mortal dare to call it guilt? 
I tell thee, Heaven, which made all holy things, 
Made naught more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart! — I say, 'tis woe 
Enough with such an aching tenderness, 
To love aught earthly! — and in vain! in vain! 
— We are press'd down too sorely ! 

Gonzalez (in a low desponding voice.) Now my life 
Is struck to worthless ashes! — -In my soul 
Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows, 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is pour'd upon me. 
To read the guilty secrets in each eye 
That once look'd bright with truth ! 

— Why then I have gain'd 
What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity. 
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, 
Search'd, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom. 
Are food for mockery! — Why should I not cast 
From my thinn'd locks the wearing helm at once, 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down for ever ? — Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness, 
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 
Worth striving for again? 

Ximena. Father ! look up I 

Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gonzalez. Thy face is fair ; 

And hath been unto me, in other days, 



346 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

As morning to the journeyer of the deep ; 
But now — 'tis too like hers! 

Elmina {falling at his feet) Woe, shame and woe, 
Are on me in their might! — forgive, forgive! 

Gonzalez {starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that 
/ have part, or share. 
Or counsel in this vileness ? — Stay me not 1 
Let go thy hold — 'tis powerless on me now — 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[Exit Gonzalez. 

Elmina. Ximena, dost thou scorn me? 

Ximena. I have found 

In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom naught can blind — to dare do aught 
But pity thee, dear mother 1 

Elmina. Blessings light 

On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this! 
Thou kind and merciful! — My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! — Is there aught else to do. 
Or suffer, ere we die? — Oh God! my sons! 
— I have betray 'd them! — All their innocent blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Ximena. How shall I comfort thee? 
— Oh! hark! what sounds come deepening on the 

wind. 
So full of solemn hope I 

{A procession of A/uns passing across the scene, bear- 
ing relics f and chanting. 

Chant. A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower, 
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 347 

— Where is the warrior's hand? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave, 
Hear us, we perisii ! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song. 
The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, "We perish!" — Father! hear, and save! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by. 
But they that linger, soon unmourn'd must die ; 

— The dead weep not the dead ! 

— Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, hear, and save 1 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 
Is not the strong man wither'd from our eye ? 
The arm struck down that held our banners high? 

— Thine is our spirit's trust! 

Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ? — Father, hear and save 1 

Hernandez enters. 

Elmina. Why comest thou, man of vengeance? — 
What have I 
To do with thee ? — Am I not bow'd enough ? 
Thou art no mourner's comforter I 

Hernandez. Thy lord 

Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lav thv woes 



348 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

El mi 71 a. Till this day's task 

Be closed! — there is strange triumph in thine eyes — 
Is it that 1 have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame ? — But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance! — My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. — Thou may'st reproach — 

Hernandez. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven 
doth work 
By many agencies; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires, 
Pent in earth's caves! — Thou hast but speeded that 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart. 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties, 
But to avert one day ! 

Elmina. My senses fail — 

Thou saidst — speak yet again! — I could not catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Hernandez. E'en now thy lord 

Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the blood 
Which, this day, must be pour'd in sacrifice, 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire. 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 349 

Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale ! 

Ximeiio. Peace, father ! peace ! 

Behold, she sinks! — the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh ! lend thine aid 
To hear her hence. [They lead her away. 



Scene — A Street in Valencia. Several Groups of 
Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on the 
steps of a Church. Arms scattered on the ground 
around them. 

An old Citizen. The air is sultry, as with thun- 
der-clouds. 
1 left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erburthen'd. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount, 
To moisten his parch 'd lip ? [A Citizen goes out. 

Second Citizen. This wasting siege. 

Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

Third Citizen. Why, better thus. 

Than to be haunted with their famish'd cries. 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Citizen. Heaven's will be done! 

These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. 

Third Citizen (ivith bitterness.) Why, we have but 

this thought 
Vol. III. 30 



350 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Left for our gloomy comfort! — And 'tis well! 

Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 

Between the noble's palace, and the hut 

Where the worn peasant sickens! — They that bear 

The humble dead unhonour'd to their homes, 

Pass now i' th' street no lordly bridal train. 

With its exulting music ; and the wretch 

Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 

Flings himself down to die, in his last need 

And agony of famine, doth behold 

No scornful guests, with their long purple robes 

To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 

These are the days when pomp is made to feel 

Its human mould ! 

Fourth Citizen. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint lago's bell? — How sullenly 
From the great tower it peal'd .' 

Fifth Citizen. Ay, and 'tis said 

No mortal hand was near when so it seem'd 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Citizen. Too well I know 

The sound of coming fate! — 'Tis ever thus 
When death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house. (5) — Oh! there are things 
In this strange world of which we have all to learn 
When its dark bounds are pass'd. — Yon bell, un- 

touch'd 
(Save by hands we see not) still doth speak — 
— When of that line some stately head is mark'd — • 
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night. 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I have heard it oft. 
Nor known its warning false. 

Fourth Citizen. And will our chief 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 351 

Buy, at the price of his fair children's blood, 
A few niore days of pining wretchedness 
For this forsaken city ? 

Old a then. Doubt it not ! 

— But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ! — And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame. 
Should pass away! — For she, his daughter too, 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time 
To sojourn there is short. 

Fifth Citizen, Then woe for us 

When she is gone! — Her voice — the very sound 
Of her soft step was comfort as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning ! — Who like her 
Shall give us hope again? 

Old Citizen. Be still 1 she comes. 

And with a mien how changed ! — A hurrying step 
And a flush'd cheek ! — What may this bode? — Be still! 

XiMENA enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner, 

Ximena. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this. 
What do ye here ? 

A Citizen. We die 1 

Ximena. Brave men die now 

Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death! — It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times, 
To fold the mantle round us and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently. 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them! — Hear ye not? 

A Citizen. Lady! what wouldst thou with us? 

Ximena. Rise and arm ! 



352 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! — Shall this be ? 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush'd, 
r th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle- word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd music? — Must this work be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be thrill' d no longer? 

Citizens. 'Tis even so! 

Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us. 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Ximena. Are ye so poor 

Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins, 
And gives the fleet step wings? — Why, how have age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause, 
Blessing that agony? — Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthly, of this earth, 
This dull mortality? — Nay, then look on me! 
Death's touch hath mark'd me, and I stand among you, 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill! — I say the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now, 
I have that within me, kindling through the dust. 
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice 
And token to the nations ! — Look on me ! 
Why hath Heaven pour'd forth courage, as a flame 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 353 

Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still'd 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness, 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair, 
And your soul's torpor? — Yet, arise and arm! 
It may not be too late. 

A Citizen. Whv, what are we. 

To cope with hosts? — Thus faint, and worn, and few, 
O'ernumber'd and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty ? 

Ximena. And for whom 

Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 
From their high places, made the fearfulness. 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power. 
To the pale startled earth most manifest. 
But for the weak ? — Was't for the helm'd and crown'd 
That suns were stay'd at noonday? — Stormy seas 
As a rill parted? — Mail'd archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death? 

— I tell you, if these marvels have been done 
'Twas for the wearied and the oppress'd of men. 
They needed such ! — And generous faith hath power 
By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 

Of the great elder time! — Be of good heart! 
Who is forsaken ? — He that gives the thought 
A place witliin his breast! — 'Tis not for you. 

— Know ye this banner ? 

Citizens {murmuring to each other.) Is she not 

inspired ? 

Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice ? 

Ximena. Know ye this banner? 

Citizens. 'Tis the Cid's. 

Ximena. The Cid's ! 

30* 



354 SIEGE OF VALE^CIA. 

Who breathes that name but m th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to? — Why, the very wind, 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold, 
Ilath a triumphant sound! — The Cid's ! — it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land., 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 

Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren? — 
Oh ! that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once again ! 

Ximena. Ye linger still! — Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain (6) 
Pour'd forth his conquering spirit ! — 'T was the breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to wave 
This banner of his battles, as it droop'd 
Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. — They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, (7) 
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty pass'd I — They wrapt him not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form 
In war array, and on his barbed steed. 
As for a triumph, rear'd him ; marching forth 
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguer'd then as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved: — but who was he 
That follow 'd, charging on the tall white horse. 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale. 
Waving in sheets of snow-light? — And the cross, 
The l>loody cross far-blazing from his shield. 
And the fierce meteor-sword ? They fled, they fled ! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path! — The scimetar 
Was shiver'd as a reed! — For in that hour 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 355 

The warrior saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 
Was arm'd betimes! — And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner streamed all joyously, 
For still its lord was there ! 

Citizens {rising tumultuously.) Even unto death 
Again it shall be follow'd ! 

Ximena. Will he see 

The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 
Which his high house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quench'd 

at once ? 
Will he not aid his children, in the hour 
Of this their uttermost peril? — Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst ! 
— Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke 
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain 
In her great danger? — At the' night's mid-watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men. 
By thousands marching through! — For he had risen! 
The Campeador was on his march again. 
And in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen ! — He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth 
And call'd his buried warriors from their sleep. 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 
For Afric was upon her! — Morning broke — 
Day rush'd through clouds of battle ; but at eve 
Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field. 
That rock'd her ancient mountains. 



356 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

The Citizens. Arm ! to arms ! 

On to our chief! We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused ! Now, be the word, 
For the Cid's house! [They begin to aim themselves. 

Ximena. Ye know his battle-song. 

The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth 
To strike down Paynim swords! {She sings.) 

THE cid's battle SONG. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout. 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out. 

He hath marshall'd his dark array ! 

Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear, 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear. 

And the sword for the brave man's hand I 

{The Citizens join in the song, while they continue 
arming themselves.) 

Banners are in the field ! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board. 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour'd. 

And take up his father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground, 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods round ! 

— There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown, 

And arm in the banquet-hall! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 357 

And stay the funeral-train ! 
Bid the chanted mass be hush'd awhile, 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain ! 

{They take up the banner and follow Ximena otit. 
Their voices are heard gradually dying away at a 
distance,) 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array ! 
His steed is barb'd, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky, 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 

Scene — The Walls of the City. The Plain beneath, 
with the Moorish Camp and Army, 

Gonzalez, Garcias, Hernandez. 

{A wild sound of Moorish music heard from below.) 
Hernandez. What notes are these, in their deep 
mournfulness 
So strangely wild? 

Garcias. 'Tis the shrill melody 

Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound : but, till this hour. 
It seem'd not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo ! from yon tent 
They lead the noble boys ! 

Hernandez. The young, and pure, 



358 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

And beautiful victims ! — 'T is on things like these 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope ! — Yet this is well. 
Thus brightly crown'd with life's most gorgeous 

flowers, 
And all unblemish'd, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto heaven ! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Gonzalez (starting.) Are my sons there? 

I knew they could not perish ; for yon heaven 
Would ne'er behold it! — Where is he that said 
I was no more a father? — They look changed — 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house ! 
Or is 't mine eye sees dimly ? — But their steps 
Seem heavy, as with pain — I hear the clank — 
Oh God ! their limbs are fetter'd ! 

Abdullah (coining forward beneath the loalls.) 

Christian, look 
Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword : 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gonzalez. Why should this man 

So mock us with the semblance of our kind? 
— Moor ! Moor ! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 
Who visits for such things ! — Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature? — 'Twill be taught thee yet. 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul. 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine. 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust. 
And be denied ! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 359 

Abdullah. Nay, is it not thyself 

That hast no mercy and no love within thee? 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house ; 
Speak! must they live or die? 

Gonzalez {in violent emotion.) Is it Heaven's wiL 
To try the dust it kindles for a day. 
With infinite agony! — How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head ! — They bloom'd around 

me, 
<\nd my heart grew too fearless in its joy, 
Glorying in their bright promise! — If we fall. 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness? 

(Hernandez^ without speaking, holds up a Cross 
before him.) 

Abdullah. Speak ! 

Gonzalez {snatching the Cross, and lifting it up.) 
Let the earth be shaken through its depths, 
But this must triumph ! 

Abdullah {coldly.) Be it as thou wilt. 
— Unsheath the scimetar ! [^To his Guards. 

Garcias {to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief! 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle-proof as yours, 
Unmadden'd may sustain. 

Gonzalez. Be still ! I have now 

No place on earth but this ! 

Alphonso {from beneath.) Men ! give me way. 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Garcias. The princely boy! — How gallantly his 
brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death ! 

Alphonso. Father ! 



360 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Gonzalez. My son! my son! — mine eldest-born! 

Alphonso. Stay but upon the ramparts! — Fear 
thou not — 
There is good courage in me : oh ! my father I 
I will not shame thee ! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength. 

Gonzalez. Would, would to God, 

That I might die for thee, my noble boy I 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alphonso. Could I have lived, 

I might have been a warrior! — Now, farewell! 
But look upon me still ! — I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. — Mark me well ! 
Mine eyelid shall not quiver as it falls. 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 
We must be gone! — thou canst not bear it! 

Gonzalez. Peace ! 

— Who hath told thee how much man's heart can bear? 

— Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls fearfully— 
How thick the shades close round ! — my boy ! my boy ! 
Where art thou in this gloom? 

Garcias. Let us go hence. 

This is a dreadful moment ! 

Gonzalez. Hush! — what saidst thou? 

Now let me look on him! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist that wraps us? 

Garcias. I behold — 

Oh ! for a thousand Spaniards to rush down — 

Gonzalez. Thou seest — My heart stands still to 
hear thee speak ! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 361 

— There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 'twere the dead of night! 

Garcias. The hosts have closed 

Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears. 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not ; 

— But now 

Gonzalez, He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
And all is darkness round me ! — Now ? 

Garcias. A sword, 

A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst. 
Through the dark serried mass ! — Its cold blue glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 'tis vanish'd — hark! 

Gonzalez. I heard it, yes! — I heard the dull dead 
sound. 
That heavily broke the silence! — Didst thou speak? 

— I lost thy words — come nearer! 

Garcias. 'T was — 't is past ! — 

The sword fell then ! 

Hernandez {with exultation.) Flow forth, thou 
noble blood ! 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Uncheck'd and brightly forth! — Thou kingly stream! 
Blood of our heroes ! blood of martyrdom ! 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast pour'd 
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine ow^n free offering! — Bathe the land! 
But there thou shalt not sink! — Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies, 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous. 
With battle-hues of thee! — And thy deep voice 
Rising above them to the judgment-seat 

VouIII. — 31 



362 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Shall call a burst of gather'd vengeance down. 
To sweep th' oppressor from us! — For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er ! 

Gonzalez {endeavouring to rouse himself.) 'Tis all 
a dream ! 
There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head ! — Why look you thus ! 

Abdullah {pointing to Carlos.) Christian ! e'en yet 
thou hast a son ! 

Gonzalez, E'en yet ! 

Carlos. My father ! take me from these fearful men ! 
Wilt thou not save me, father ? 

Gonzalez {attempting to unsheath his sword.) Is 
the strength 
From mine arm shiver'd ? Garcias, follow me ! 

Garcias. Whither, my chief? 

Gonzalez. Why, we can die as well 

On yonder plain, — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require. 
Sooner than e'er this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[Voices heard at a distance, 

Hernandez. Hush ! what strain 

Floats on the wind? 

Garcias. 'Tis the Cid's battle-song! 

What marvel hath been wrought ? 

[Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 
H^ b?ith n^iarsball'd lais dark array 1 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 363 

XiMENA enters, followed 6y Citizens, loith the Banner, 

Ximena. ^ Is it too late ? — My father, these are men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner! — Is their zeal too late? 
— Oh! there's a fearful history on thy brow! 
What hast thou seen? 

Garcias. It is not all too late. 

Ximena. My brothers! 

Hernandez. All is well. 

( To Garcias.) Hush ! would'st thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar-embers mounts in sudden brightness? 
I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain! 
On to the rescue ! 

Ximena. Bless me, oh, my father ! 

And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers. 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm, 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Gonzalez {falling on her neck.) Hath aught been 
spared ? 
Am I not all bereft? — Thou'rt left me still! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou 'rt left me still ! 
Farewell! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena. 

Ximena. Fare thee well ! 

If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field. 
The voice is hush'd that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Hernandez. Peace ! no more ! 

This is no time to melt our nature dow^n 



364 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

To a soft stream of tears. — Be of strong heart! 
Give me the banner ! Swell the song again ! 

THE CITIZENS. 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears. 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! [Exeunt omnes. 



Scene — Before the Altar of a Church. 

Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elmina. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang thy 
ways, 
Oh, thou mysterious Heaven! — It cannot be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath. 
To burst upon me through the lifting up 
Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreathed a cup of trembling; and the love 
The boundless love, my spirit was form'd to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy! — I never look'd 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth, 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seem'd glowing with their quiet blessedness. 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes; even like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams 
A restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade ! — How have I shrunk 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 365 

From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 

With its low tokens of mortality, 

Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles ! — their smiles! 

— Where are those glad looks now? — Could they go 
down 

With all their joyous light, that seem'd not earth's, 

To the cold grave ? — My children ! — Righteous Hea- 
ven! 

There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 

Of one who told me, with relentless eye, 

That this should he the hour ! 

XiMENA enters. 

Ximena. They are gone forth 

Unto the rescue — strong in heart and hope, 
Faithful, though few! — My mother, let thy prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons! — For me, my part is done! 
The flame, which dimly might have linger'd yet 
A little while, hath gather'd all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once ! and it is well ! 
The shadows are around me; to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Elmina. My child! — What dream 

Is on thy soul? — E'en now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Ximena, Death's ! 

Elmina, Away! 

Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
Than ting'd its earlier flower ! 
31* 



*S6G SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Ximena. It well may be ! 

There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elmina. Nay, speak not thus : 

There 's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Wer't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien! — Oh no! this is not death! 

Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer ? — He hath many forms. 
They should not all be fearful ! — If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst. 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the hearths deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer- winds, a voice of melody. 
Solemn, yet lovely ? — Mother ! I depart ! 
— Be it thy comfort, in the after-days. 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elmina. Distract me not 

With such wild fears! Can I bear on with life 
W^hen thou art gone? — Thy voice, thy step, thy smile. 
Passed from my path? — Alas! even now thine eye 
Is changed — thy cheek is fading ! 

Ximena. Ajt the clouds 

Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 367 

And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness! — It may soothe 
Thy woes, my mother, if I tell thee now, 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 

Elmina. Thine ! 

Ximena. Rejoice 

For her, that, w^hen the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried, 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart. 
To wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light. 
That dimm'd the rest for ever ! 

Eimina. How is this? 

My child, what mean'st thou? 

Ximena. Mother, 1 have loved, 

And been beloved ! — the sunbeam of an hour. 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts. 
Went out, and left them colourless. — 'T is past — 
And what remains on earth? — the rainbow mist. 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is clear'd to look on all things as they are ! 
— But this is far too mournful! — Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
— Therefore I would go hence ! 

Elmina. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Ximena. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veil'd 
My thoughts from thee 1— But thou hadst woes enough. 



S68 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

And mine came o*er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength ! — For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! — I look'd again — 
The strife grew dark beneath me — but his plume 
Waved (ree above the lances. — Yet again — 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! 
— And then — at last — I hurried to the gate, 
And met him there! — I met him! — on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shiver'd sword. 
And dark hair steep'd in blood! — They bore him 

past — 
Mother ! I saw his face ! — Oh ! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth. 
The pride of woman's eye ! 

Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace ! 

Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame — 

Ximena. There will be peace ere long. I shut 
my heart 
E'en as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief. 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the hour 
Is come when that which would have pierced thy soul 
Shall be its healing balm. Oh ! weep thou not. 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Elmina. Must it be? 

Art thou indeed to leave me ? 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 389 

Ximena {exultingly.) Be thou glad ! 

1 say, rejoice above thy favour'd child ! 
Joy for the soldier, when his field is fought; 
Joy for the peasant, when his vintage-task 
Is closed at eve ! — But most of all for her, 
Who, when her life changed its glittering robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on, 
Cast down its weight — and slept! 

Elmina. Alas! thine eye 

Is wandering — yet how brightly! — Is this death. 
Or some high wondrous vision? — Speak, my child! 
How is it with thee now? 

Ximena {wildly.) I see it still ! 

'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high. 
My father's banner! — Hear'st thou not a sound? 
The trumpet of Castile? — Praise, praise to Heaven 1 

— Now may the weary rest! — Be still! — Who calls 
The night so fearful? [She dies, 

Elmina. No ! she is not dead ! 

— Ximena! speak to me! — Oh! yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound 
Ere the deep silence fall ! — What ! is all hush'd ? 

— No, no! — it cannot be! — How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us? — But is this 

Her wonted look? — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty! — Speak, Ximena! 
Speak! — my heart dies within me! — She is gone. 
With all her blessed smiles! — My child! my child! 
Where art thou ? — Where is that which answer'd me. 
From thy soft-shining eyes! — Hush! doth she move? 



370 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

— One light lock seem'd to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbb'd beneath; — 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirr'd it! — She is gone! 

[^She throws herself on the body. Gonzalez enters 
alone, and wounded. 

Elmina {rising as he approaches.) I must not now 
be scorn'd ! — No, not a look, 
A whisper of reproach ! — Behold my woe ! 
Thou canst not scorn me now! 

Gonzalez. Hast thou heard all? 

Elmina. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head, 
And pass'd away to rest. — Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her ! (8) 

Gonzalez {bending over Ximena's body.) Thou art 
gone 
A little while before me, oh, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away. 
And spread his couch beside them? 

Elmina. Must it be 

Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had its bright place among us? — Is this all, 
Left for the years to come? — We will not stay! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gonzalez {still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou'rt 
laid 
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child ! 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb ! — Oh, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 
Back unto him that gave it! — And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 371 

Elmina. Hadst thou seen 

The look with which she pass'd ! 

Gonzalez {still bending over her.) Why, 'tis almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long -forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart! — No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
That quench'd young life by violence ! — We have seen 
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught, so gently gather'd hence ! 
— Oh ! man leaves other traces ! 

Elmina {starting suddenly.) It returns 
On my bewilder'd soul! — Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue? — And thou'rt here alone! 
— Where are my sons? 

Gonzalez {solemnly.) We were too late 1 

Elmina. Too late! 

Hast thou naught else to tell me? 

Gonzalez. I brought back 

From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death-wound. 

Elmina. Thine I 

Gonzalez, Another hour 

Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence. 
And with me 

Elmina. No! — Man could not lift his hands — 
Where hast thou left thy sons? 

Gonzalez. I have no sons. 

Elmina. What hast thou said ? 

Gonzalez. That now there lives not one 

To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 



372 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Elmina {throioing herself on the ground, and speak- 
ing in a low hurried voice.) In one brief hour, 
all gone! — and such a death! 

— I see their blood gush forth! — their graceful 

heads 

Take the dark vision from me, oh my God ! 
And such a death for them! — I was not there! — 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy. 
Not in that mortal anguish! — Ah, all gone! 
— Why should 1 struggle more ? — What is this Power 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us. 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail spirit prostrate ? 

{After a long pause.) Now I know 

Thy hand, my God! — and they are soonest crush'd 
That most withstand it! — I resist no more 
{She rises.) — A light, a light springs up from grief 

and death 
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried ! 

Gonzalez. Then I may still 

Fix my last look on thee, in holy love. 
Parting, but yet with hope. 

Ehnina {falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive ? 

— Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart. 
That should have buried it within mine own. 
And borne the pang in silence! — I have cast 
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair, 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves, 

Whence thou hast snatch'd it back, to bear from earth, 
All stainless, on thy breast — Well hast thou done — 
But I — canst thou forgive? 

Gonzalez, Within this hour 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 373 

I have stood upon that verge whence mortals fall, 
And learn'd how 'tis with one whose sight grows dim. 
And whose foot trembles on the gulfs dark side. 
— Death purifies all feeling — We will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elmina. Death! — And thou too 

Art on thy way! — Oh, joy for thee, high heart! 
Glory and joy for thee ! — The day is closed. 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords 
Have enter'd thine own soul! — But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair. 
And I am left far distanced in the race, 
The lonely one of earth! — Ay, this is just: 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Thy spirit unto God. 

Gonzalez. Thou art ! thou art ! 

Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness, 
E'en in the presence of eternal things 
Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimm'd, 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! — We are here 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is 
For such a witness in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to regard th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness — w'ho are they. 
That in one path have journey'd, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close? 

{A Citizen enters hastily.) 

Citizen. The Moors I the Moors I 
Vol.111. 32 



374 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Gonzalez. How ! is the city storm'd ? 

Oh! righteous Heaven! — for this I look'd not yet I 
Hath all been done in vain? — Why, then 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to rest! 

Citizen. The sun shall set. 

And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, 
To-night, within Valencia! — round our walls 
The paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gonzalez. Then my place 

Is here no longer. — I had hoped to die 
Ev'n by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires — but this was not to be I 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour. 
And it hath still high duties. — Now my wife! 
Thou mother of my children — of the dead — 
Whom I name unto thee, in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elmina. No, not farewell! — My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side. 
Amidst the hurtling lances, I will stand. 
As one to whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gonzalez. I thank thee. Heaven, 

That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given to temper hours like this, 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

(7b Elmiiva.) We will not part. 

But with the spirit's parting ! 

Elmina. One farewell 

To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness, 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 375 

Doth slumber at our feet! — My blessed child! 
Oh ! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong, 
And holy courage did pervade thy woe, 
As light the troubled waters I — Be at peace ! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee! — And thy life 
E'en then w^as struck, and withering at the core! 
— Farewell! — Thy parting look hath on me fall'n, 
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been! — My soul is hush'd. 
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine shone forth. — Thou hast not lived 
In vain — my child, farewell ! 

Gonzalez. Surely for thee 

Death had no sting, Ximena! — We are blest, 
To learn one secret of the shadowy past. 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower 1 
In token of th' undying love and hope, 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt 



Scene — The Walls of the City, 
Hernandez. — A few Citizens gathered round him, 

Hernandez, Why, men have cast the treasures, 
which their lives 
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre, 
Ay, at their household hearths have Ht the brand, 
Ev'n from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their homes. 



376 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

In ashes, to the winds! — They have done this. 
Making a blasted void, where once the sun 
Look'd upon lovely dwellings; and from earth 
Razing all record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, 
And frail Humanity knelt before her God; 
— They have done this, in their free nobleness. 
Rather t?an see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places! — Praise, high praise be theirs, 
Who have left man such lessons ! — And these things. 
Made your own hills their witnesses ! — The sky. 
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birth-place, and the tomb. 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith. 
Thus proudly honour'd. — Be ye not outdone 
By the departed! — Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong ! 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flush'd hope, and we may die 
Laughing him unto scorn. — Rise, follow me, 
And thou, Valencia ! triumph in thy fate. 
The ruin, not the yoke, and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Citizen. We'll follow thee! 

— Alas! for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we rear'd our children! — But away! 
The Moor shall plant no crescent o'er our fanes! 

Voice {from a toioer on the ivalls.) Succours! — 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Citizens (rushing to the spot.) It is even so! 
Now blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved I 
Castile, Castile ! 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 377 

Voice (from the tower.) Line after line of spears, 
Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge. 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up. 
Doth skirt the plains! — in faith, a noble host! 

Another Voice. The Moor hath turn'd him from 
our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain ! 

Citizens (shouting.) Castile ! Castile ! 

(Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmina and a Citizen. 

Gonzalez. What shouts of joy are these ? 

Hernandez. Hail, chieftain ! hail ! 

Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! — Behold our God hath heard 
And arm'd himself with vengeance ! — Lo ! they come ! 
The lances of Castile ! 

Gonzalez. I knew, I knew 

Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake 
Thy servant in his need! — My blood and tears 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth 1 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Elmina. And I too bless thy name. 

Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 
Oh God! — thou God of chastening! 

Voice (from the tower.) They move on ! 

I see the royal banner in the air. 
With its emblazon'd towers ! 

Gonzalez. Go, bring ye forth 

The banner of the Cid, and plant it here. 
To stream above me for an answering sign 
That the good cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still! — What see ye now? 
32* 



378 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Hernandez. I see a kingdom's might upon its path, 
Moving in terrible magnificence. 
Unto revenge and victory! — With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks. 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind. 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it comes, 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Gonzalez. I hear it now, 

The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths. 

Hernandez. Ay, earth knows well the omen of 
that sound, 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's. 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gonzalez. Hark ! how the wind 

Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain ! 
Now the heart feels its power! — A little while 
Grant me to live, my God! — What pause is this? 

Hernandez. A deep and dreadful one! — the ser- 
ried files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath. 
Silent, and face to face. 

VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, CHAXTING. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod. 

His seal was on thy brow. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 379 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Elmina {to Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o'er 
thy daughter's bier ! 

— But I am calm, and e'en like gentle winds. 
That music, through the stillness of my heart, 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gonzalez. Oh ! well those solemn tunes 

Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 

[A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain, 
Hernandez. Now, now they close! — Hark! what 
a dull dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war-shout ! — I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. — The shock is given — 
Lo I they have placed their shields before their hearts, 
And lower'd their lances with the streamers on, 
And on their steeds bent forward! — God for Spain! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 

— There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this! — 'Tis not the gallant crests. 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry ; 

The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself! 

Gonzalez. Oh, raise me up. 

That I may look upon the noble scene ! 

— It will not be! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight! — Whence rose that shout, 

in fierce triumph ? 



380 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Hernandez {clasping his hands,) Must I look on 
this? 
The hanner sinks — 'tis taken! 

Gonzalez, Whose ? 

Hernandez, Castile's ! 

Gonzalez, Oh, God of battles ! 

Elmina. Calm thy noble heart ! 

Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Hernandez, Cheer thee yet ! 

Our knights have spurr'd to rescue. — There is now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things. 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! — I see tall plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide, 
Sway'd by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar-boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, 
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through! — Now, shout for Santiago, shout! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barbed steeds go down 
With their helm'd riders! — Who, but One, can tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling on of furious multitudes? 

Gonzalez, Thou'rt silent! — See'st thou more? — 
My soul grows dark. 

Hernandez. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, 
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze ! 
— I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke ! — But roimd the spot. 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 381 

Where, like a storm-feU'd mast, our standard sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gonzalez. Where is that spot? 

Hernandez. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gonzalez. There, didst thou say? 

Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died ! — My children's blood 
Calls on the avenger thence ! 

Elmina. They perish'd there ! 

— And the bright locks that waved so joj'^ously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Ev'n on that place of death! — Oh, Merciful! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Hernandez {with sudden exultation.) Who is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm. 
And the gold broider'd mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate gleams 
With star-like radiance ? 

Gonzalez (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross? 

Hernandez. On his mail'd bosom shines a broad 
white cross. 
And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow-wreath. 

Gonzalez. That should be — 

Hernandez. The king ! 

— Was it not told us how he sent, of late. 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight ? (9) 

Gonzalez (springing up joyfully.) My king ! my king ! 



382 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Now all good saints for Spain! — My noble king! 
And thou art there! — That I might look once more 
Upon thy face!^ — But yet I thank thee. Heaven! 
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city ! 

\_He sinks back into Elmina's arms. 

Hernandez. He hath cleared 

A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass 
E'en as the gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters! — 'Tis redeem'd — 
The castled banner! — It is flung once more. 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds! 
— There seems a wavering through the paynim hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — Now, now rejoice! 

Gonzalez. What hast thou seen? 

Hernandez. Abdullah falls! He falls! 

The man of blood! — the spoiler! — he hath sunk 
In our king's path! — Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez. 

They give way, 
The Crescent's van is broken! — On the hills 
And the dark pine-woods may the infidel 
Call vainly in his agony of fear, 
To cover him from vengeance! — Lo ! they fly! 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scatter'd e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 
Woe to the sons of Afric ! — Let the plains. 
And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas, 
Take their dead unto them! — that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gonzalez {attempting to raise himself.) Set me free 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 383 

Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle-field! 

Hernandez. Oh, blest in death ! 

Chosen of Heaven, farewell! — Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace I 

Gonzalez. Now charge once more ! 

God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air ! — Shout forth ' Castile 1 * 
The day is ours! — I go! — but fear ye not I 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies, 

Elmina. Look on me yet I 

Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more? — Thine eye is fix'd — 
Now is my life uprooted, — and 'tis w^ell. 

{A Sound of triumphant music is heard, and many 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.) 

A Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, although 
ye come 
E'en as deliverers! — But the noble dead, 
And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elmina {rising proudly.) No: swell forth, Castile!' 
Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! — How, know ye not 
That all array'd for triumph, crown'd and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
— Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ? — He will not hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad 1 



S84 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Hernandez. Lift ye the dead. 

And bear him, with. the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, a^ it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb, wherein 
His warrior-sires are gather 'd. [They raise the hody, 

Elmina. Ay, 'tis thus 

Thou shouldst be honour 'd ! — And 1 follow thee 
With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 
To the last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love 
Shall thence draw strength for all things, till the God 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chasten'd soul. 
Call it once more to thine ! 

{To the Castilians.) 
Awake, I say, 
Tambour and trumpet, wake ! — and let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal 

So should a hero pass to his repose. 

^Exeunt omnes 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 385 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

Mountain Christians, those natives of Spain, who, under their 
prince, Pelayo, took refuge among the mountains of the northern 
provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, 
while the rest of their country was overrun by the Moca-s. 

Note 2. 

Oh, free doth sorrow pass, ^c. 

Frey geht das Ungliick durch die ganze Erde. 

Schiller^s Death of Wallenstein, Act iv. so. 2. 

Note 3. 

Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's fevourite sword, 
taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

Note 4. 

How he won Valencia from the Moor, ^c. 

Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, and taken by 
the armies of different nations, remained in the possession of 
the Moors for an hundred and seventy years after the Cid's 
death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme, of 
Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I have 
ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the Cam- 
peador. 

Note 5. 

It was a Spanish tradition, that the great bell of the Cathedral 
of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before a king of Spain 
died. V 

Vol. III. 33 \ 



^86 SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 

Note 6. 

" El que en buen hora nasco ;" * he that \A'as born in happy 
hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chronicles. 

Note 7. 

For this, and the subsequent allusion to Spanish legends, see 
The Romances and Chronicles of the Cid. 

Note 8. 

" La voila, telle que la mort nous I'a faite !" — Bossuet, 
Oraisons Funebres. 

Note 9. 

This circumstance is recorded of King- Don Alphonso, the 
last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross 
which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast 
when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself; 
"because of the faith which he had, that through it he should 
obtain the victory." Southey^s Chronicle of the Cid. 



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